


Recognize Fate (A Dramedy of Manners)

by vorkosigan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence – Gamora and Star Lord Were Never A Thing, Everyone is a good bro, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Galas and Parties, Getting Together, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jealous Steve Rogers, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, No Accords Wank, Peter Quill is a Good Bro, Post-Canon, Post-Infinity War, Thor Is a Good Bro, Tony and Steve Can Be Pretty Horrible to Each Other, Tony flirts with Peter Quill, Wanna-Be Angry Sex, but nothing happens, everyone meddles, everyone ships it, that gets gentler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: During the horror that was the Infinity War, Tony has somehow managed to fall in love with Steve. No, really, his timing's always been stellar, in all things. He would like to pursue his feelings, hewould; only, this doesn't mesh so well with his other resolution:Steve must never ever know.It's been a year since the victory, and the time has come to celebrate. Everyone is about to meet again at a big gala.





	Recognize Fate (A Dramedy of Manners)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyness/gifts).



> This story was written as a part of the Stony Trumps Hate initiative, for heyness, who won my bid :) I wrote it according to her specs, and I did my best to include everything she wanted, and I had a lot of fun with it :) All mistakes and blunders are mine, though.
> 
> My undying thanks to [sheron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/pseuds/sheron) for reading this first and helping me untangle the mess that this fic was :)
> 
> The story takes place a year after the victory over Thanos. I did not delve into Civil War issues in this one (so pls know what you're getting into). Things are mostly all right among the Avengers, but they aren't exactly reformed or reunited. Everything is still tentative. I did not take into account any leaked footage or other material from the movies that aren't out yet. Feel free, however, to imagine Steve with a beard if you want.

 

**Do I go with a velvety burgundy suit, pin striped? Or a light gray-white one, windowpane check, with a bow tie?**

_Whatever you wear, I'm sure you'll look very fine._

_The bow tie sounds good._

**It took you 40 minutes to think of that answer?**

_Yes?_

_Be sure to wear a carnation in a lapel too, otherwise I might not recognize you without the helmet on._

_It's been so long, I mean._

**I actually got the joke the first time around, Rogers.**

 

Who would have thought it had already been a year since they won and turned the Old Purple and his posse into three tons of noodles and a matchstick? Time flies when you're having fun, and the cleanup after worldwide warfare and laying foundations for intergalactic relations were the special kind of fun Tony could have done without.

 

Pepper had turned out to be a huge help with the cleanup part. With half the world in shambles, a new superheroine named Rescue had made her presence count. (She could have gone with Iron Maiden like Tony suggested, she _could_ have.) Tony had made Pepper a suit of armor – a weaponless one, and very functional for saving people from ruins; it was as basic and as beautiful as anything he'd ever made, really. And despite the fact that her identity wasn't public knowledge yet (to her affront, the media still kept calling her Iron Small and kept referring to her as a 'him'), she was now cheekily wearing a dress of red and silver that gleamed like metal and resembled her suit in everything but material. And, well, the cut. Still, a bold choice, Tony reflected. It was almost as if she wanted to be recognized, or at least speculated about. She moved differently than before too. He'd tried telling her superheroing was like a drug, but did she listen?

 

Tony felt a tiny pang of regret, perhaps: for them, for what they'd had, and what they hadn't had; he couldn't help but think that, had their timing been more attuned, they might have understood each other better. In all probability, it wouldn't have helped, not in the long run. Still, maybe they'd have had some more good times together. Oh well. That ship had sailed off into space long ago, and all Tony could now manage was a brief bout of nostalgia that served to get his mind off other things and other people. They were better as friends anyway, Pepper and he.

_"Ms. Ellie Phimister and Ms. Neena Thurman,"_ the voice of the gala announcer drifted languidly through the half open door of the waiting room where his group was assembling.

 

"Why won't you walk down the red carpet with me?" Tony whined now, more to get his mind off things than anything else.

 

"Because," Pepper retorted, "I'm here as a superhero in my own right, not as your date."

 

"Even if almost no one knows who you actually are," Kamala piped up.

 

"That's right, that doesn't matter," Pepper agreed. "I don't know, Tony, maybe you can browbeat Rhodey into it."

 

Speaking of Rhodey, he seemed mightily nervous tonight, for whatever reason. He had decided to wear his civvies, and, unlike Tony, he was very conservative in his choice of suit.

_"Chief of Police Haakon Vik and princess Shuri of Wakanda,"_ the voice breezed through the room again. Well, if nothing else, the war and the aftermath had worked beautifully as a matchmaking service.

 

"Don't even think about it," Carol said as Tony turned to Rhodey with a mock desperate expression on his face. Rhodey grinned and gave him a helpless shrug. Not even a quip? Seriously, he definitely seemed distracted tonight. Tony would have to drag him to the side and ask him what that was all about.

 

"No, seriously, are all of us, except from – _yes_ , Carol, as I was saying – _except for Rhodey and Carol_ about to walk down the red carpet one by one, like the seven dwarves? Really? Everyone else is going to be entering in pairs..."

_"Mr. Scott Summers, Ms. Jean Gray, and, er, Mr. Wolverine."_

 

"...or threes, apparently" Tony finished.

 

This was when a beefy hand descended upon Tony's shoulder like an anvil falling from the sky. It's a miracle, how quiet big people could be, or at least big people who were also Norse gods and had various uncanny powers.

 

Either that, or Tony was super distracted himself, which, _nope_ , not the case, not at all.

 

" _Thor!_ " Kamala squealed and clapped her hands. It was sometimes difficult to remember she was 19 already. Still, good to see her back to her old, chirpy self after all she'd seen, really.

 

"Thor!" Tony echoed, with, as he thought, somewhat more poise than the tiny Khan had, but it came out pretty strangled as the big guy literally folded him into a hug. (This was one of the times Tony really missed his suit – the one of the non-cloth, non-Armani variant.)

 

"Friend Tony!“, Thor boomed and grinned down at him, holding him at arm's length now and looking him up and down for a moment, then pulling him back in and giving him a hearty slap on the back. It'd been a year, but Thor was, as ever, unchanged. He was, oh god, he was wearing a dinner jacket and leather pants, but somehow, improbably, he was pulling it off (possibly because no one was likely to notice the dinner jacket, really). Tony himself felt rather worse for wear, and, right now, also pretty squished. He disentangled himself from the man's enthusiastic embrace and let Thor say his hellos.

 

"How have you been?" Tony asked then. "I didn't know you were coming."

 

"Couldn't miss the festivities in the old country," Thor replied. "I overheard the rear end of your conversation, Iron Man," he added. "I would be pleased to be your escort as the introductions are being made, if you wish."

 

Which... was tempting, actually. Walking in with Thor, in Norway, in the royal castle, at the gala event in honor of the victory over Thanos – that was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. But...

 

Tony didn't know what he had expected, really. He should have planned this out. He was busy, true, but he should have paid someone to figure this out for him. Or written an algorithm. _Something_.

 

Carol and Pepper were engaged in an animated discussion about – Tony listened for a moment – _crop failure? Really?_ Kamala was showing Spidey something on her phone. Rhodey looked around, took notice of the situation. Then he leaned over and whispered so that only Tony and the Norse god could hear: "I think you're the wrong blonde, Thor."

 

Rhodey meant well – well, of course he did, it was Rhodey. He just wanted to make light, get Tony to relax a little. Still, Tony failed to laugh. His heart constricted in his chest for a moment, no matter how much he tried to pretend it didn't. Anxiety? Anticipation? Both, really, hopelessly entangled in his mind. He touched the phone in his pocket, a knee-jerk reaction; refrained from pulling it out.

 

He was momentarily saved from having to reply by the announcer's assistant poking her head in through the door (the announcer guy was too important to do it himself, apparently).

 

"Are you all here? Do we have a list of names? The order of entrance?"

 

The woman seemed awfully cool and blasé, despite the way the media treated Tony and his friends now. Hosting these events and dealing with royalty on regular basis would do that to you, he supposed. Besides, there had to be hundreds of superheroes, state officials and military brass from all over the world here; and working with superheroes, at least, was like herding cats. The woman needed to get them _organized._

 

"We're still waiting for someone," he said, averting the crisis for now.

 

Thor gave him a sharp look. "Bruce," Tony mouthed at him, and Thor inclined his head and _hrmph_ ed thoughtfully.

 

"Please, I will need the list at your earliest convenience," the woman said, all cool professionalism. Which was when she, seemingly, spotted Carol and the mask slipped, if for a second. "Oh dear god, you're Captain Marvel," she said, and her voice seemed to quiver for a moment; and then she fled the room.

 

"Seems you've been ousted in your own country, old man," Tony quipped at Thor and grinned.

 

"The wrong blonde, eh?" Thor said thoughtfully instead of replying. "And where _is_ our good Captain?" The others were joking loudly now, about one thing or another, and the two of them had an improbable moment to talk in peace. Tony didn't know if he liked the line of inquiry or not.

 

"He's... coming with his group," he said, as calmly as he could, although he thought his voice might have gone a little feeble.

 

He'd seen Steve a few times, before the final battle and after; they'd planned together and fought together, organized, coordinated and ran recons, first when absolutely necessary, then whenever it was convenient, and then they just... did it. It worked. It was so easy to slip back into old patterns when there was a galactic war in progress and lives on the line. But it was all business, wasn't it? _No_ , he told himself, trying for truthfulness. Business was a part of it – the _easy_ part, in the end. In private, the awkwardness was painful, and it was almost easier to avoid each other than to try and do anything about it.

 

And then there was that one time, and there were the two of them, and there was Thor; alcohol and certain Norse deities weren't bad, as social glue goes... The problem was, after that, in absence of either component, it was too easy to just backslide. And – as he was seriously beginning to think now – maybe it wasn't backsliding at all. Maybe it all didn't mean what Tony hoped it meant in the first place.

 

Thor gave him another piercing look, compressed his lips for a moment and shook his head.

 

"Thor, we're not... _fighting_ ," Tony said. They _weren't_. The groups had shared battle wounds and hospitals and scars and the aftermath. "Steve and Natasha and the guys have mostly been doing undercover work for Fury. I've been... busy on the other side of things. That's all." Yet, they were still _two_ _groups_.

 

"I don't think you people realize how tiny your lives are," Thor told him. "And short."

 

"I know that, old buddy." Tony sighed. "I _do_ know."

 

"So?"

 

"So... We've been talking. A bit. Texting. I don't know, sometimes I think..." Tony trailed off, unsure of what he thought.

 

Thor grinned at him, not exactly managing levity. "Do you know what Kyrumption is, Iron Man?"

 

"The what?"

 

Thor sighed theatrically. "Kyrumption: When two great heroes come together on the field of battle..."

 

Tony barked a laugh. "Holy hell, you've been watching _Angel_ , haven't you? When d'you find the time?"

 

"What I mean to say is," Thor said, leaning forward, so that only Tony could hear, "when that happens, you need to recognize it." And then, abruptly louder: "I still cannot fathom that the fair lady was partial to the dauntless Captain Marvel, but would hardly even look at me twice. I am, after all, the deity of her ancestors; I should think I deserve some notice." This was just a tad too booming and convivial to be genuine. Thor's attempt at diverting attention, then; because, Tony saw, Peter was coming over – all knees and elbows and awkward angles in his fancy new suit Tony had helped him pick out. And Tony was suddenly grateful, whether to Thor for changing the subject or to little Pete for inducing the change, he couldn't be sure.

 

"I overheard you guys; _Angel_ 's so great!" Peter said without much preamble. "Kamala, have you seen it? It's this _extremely_ old TV show..."

 

Bruce arrived practically at that instant, saving Tony from any further questions or too observant gods.

 

"So?" Bruce said after the hellos, and the bone-crushing hug from Thor, and some sciency geeking out from Peter. "Do I have to actually walk down those steps, or do you think I can, eh, teleport straight to the bar without anyone noticing?"

 

"That's," Tony said, "a question that's been plaguing most of us here, actually."

 

The assistant announcer poked her head in, _again_.

 

"I do apologize, but I'm going to have to check your names now, and I will need the list of pairs or, er, any other arrangements, please."

 

" _Pairs?_ " Bruce shot Thor and Tony a look that said _help, social anxiety tinged with green_ to anyone who knew how to listen.

 

" _Groups_ ," Tony said decisively to the woman, who arched her eyebrows at this breech of protocol.

 

"How do you mean, groups?"

 

"Group, actually. Singular." Tony was beginning to wonder if you were supposed to tip staff in royal palaces, and if this was all due to the fact that he hadn't.

 

"Groups – that's how we do it at home too, as a matter of fact" Thor seemed to be back in his full jovially-rumbling mode. "Heroes travel in bands, and the bands do everything together. Fight together, drink together. You cannot disband a band of friends." Thor pursed his lips at his own words, shot an apologetics look at Tony, and it took him a split second to add: "Not when I am here, at least." Thor looked the woman in the eye and let his best smile melt slowly all over his face,  but she seemed unusually immune to his charms.

 

"I need you to tell me who to announce, please, and in what order," she said.

 

"Why don't you..." It was Carol, unusually thoughtful for a second. Then, more decisively she added: "Yes, that works." She pushed to the front. "Why don't you just announce 'East Cost Avengers and friends', and people can puzzle over the rest if they want to. Doable, yes?"

 

Tony had a strong suspicion this wouldn't have worked had anyone else said it. But as it was, the woman shot Carol a furtive and completely unprofessional starry-eyed look, then nodded. "That makes my job a little easier, if anything," she admitted. As she turned to go, she hesitated for a moment, then spun back on her heel, a suggestion of an almost cheeky smile on her lips.

 

"Captain Marvel? Carol? Would you sign my clipboard?"

 

***

 

It was just like Tony to write nothing for days, then send a text out of nowhere and ask him what to wear. Steve kind of hated the texting thing, but not really. He both dreaded the beeping of the wretched device and longed for it. At first Natasha had rolled her eyes at his reactions, and then, somehow, she'd stopped. But – as he didn't try to explain to her because they hadn't actually discussed it – what he hated about texting was the fact that his only communication with Tony had been – well, random questions or various funny clips that Tony tended to send him on and off. Steve never knew what to reply to that. And then, when the dry spell extended for days and weeks at times, he longed for the beeping sound and watched and rewatched the stupid otters playing in the mud. (Natasha'd stopped rolling her eyes at that too;  she'd just arch an eyebrow from time to time, which was mildly disturbing.)

 

It was as if the cord that connected him to Tony kept fraying and getting stronger, randomly, and Steve had no control over it whatsoever. When he sometimes took initiative and wrote first, Tony would often as not ignore him or reply curtly. Maybe, Steve suspected, because he himself sounded awkward and forced and obviously never knew what to say. But sometimes the conversation would flow. Sometimes Steve could almost pretend all was normal.

 

Steve didn't know what to think. That was the main problem.

 

And now he looked up as Tony was announced ( _East Coast Avengers and friends? Really?_ ), and he saw him walk down at the head of his group, one hand on Peter's shoulder, one on Kamala's. Tony was wearing the best, fakest, most brilliant smile in his register. Behind them, Pepper was lovely as ever, and at her sides, Bruce seemed nervous, Thor all in his element, and at the tail end of the group, Carol and Rhodey walked hand in hand, like a bastion of normalcy, Steve thought. Rhodey seemed to be handling steps with no obvious problems, and Steve's heart contracted for a second. And the decorations on Carol's dress uniform gleamed like a dozen small suns.

 

And seeing all of them, together like that, was as if the other half of his life slid into place, a missing piece he wouldn't let himself miss properly until it was already there, because it would have hurt too much otherwise.

 

Except for Tony. Because, everything began and ended with him, and him Steve missed always, and he couldn't tear his gaze away.

 

"Close your mouth, stupid." Buck nudged him with his elbow.

 

"What?"

 

"You're staring."

 

"Am not."

 

Across the room, that had been slowly filling for the past half hour, his eyes met Tony's. Snapping together, like two poles of a magnet. Steve felt his heart falter for a moment, unsure whether to stop or to start beating faster. Suddenly it was all too much. He remembered this one conversation with Tony, years ago, when they'd stayed up late at night, drinking very black coffee, in that short, happy time they had all stayed in the Tower together. Steve sometimes wondered if that time ever happened. It felt incredibly short, while it lasted. But now, looking back, it seemed to stretch indefinitely, like memories of childhood: every evening was like a year, every sentence seemed to bear significance.

 

On that one occasion, when everyone else had gone to bed, he and Tony had sat and talked about public appearances – it was one of the rare occasions they didn't bicker or tease. And – although it was hard to believe, now, that he had once had that kind of easy conversations with Tony – Steve had said how he had been nervous at first, when he went traveling with his show, way back when; but one of the dancers had taught him to look about half a foot above the heads of the audience, and no one could ever figure it out, no one would notice; and he could pretend none of them were there. Tony, on the other hand, had a trick to pick a series of random people in the audience, unknown people, to look them straight in the eye and smile, almost flirtingly, as if that person was the most important man or woman in the whole world. And then to switch to the next one, and so on.

 

Looking at Tony, Steve now felt like one of the random no-names in the audience. And his throat constricted. He looked away, so that Tony wouldn't get a chance to do it first.

 

"Walk." Natasha's voice jerked him from his reverie. "The feet. Move them." Her hand on his shoulder was gentle, almost butterfly-light, but her voice was, by contrast, quiet and sharp. They had arrived together, super early (Steve had insisted), but Natasha had been fluttering at the margins of his world since, chatting and mingling, apparently familiar with just about everyone. Her act was pure art. Steve already missed the real Natasha, but he also envied her a bit. He himself had mostly limited himself to tight smiles and nods and oh-so-firm handshakes. The more the hall filled, the more uncomfortable he was becoming.

 

"Hm?" he now said, absently.

 

"She's right, man," Sam cut in. "If you... if we don't go say hi now, it's going to get awkward."

 

"Yeah," Steve said. "Of course."

 

"I'm off to find the crapper," Bucky announced, deliberately crude, and disappeared into the crowd, not fooling anyone as to the purpose of his escape. Natasha rolled her eyes, but her gaze lingered on his retreating back for a moment.

 

"Either you or Tony are going to make an ass out of yourselves, that much's for sure," she now informed Steve, "probably both of you. So try not to."  Seeing her social persona bothered Steve, so he welcomed the exaggerated eyeroll at Bucky's departure, as well as the sharp words. At least they were genuine.

 

His suit felt too tight and unnatural around his shoulders. He could barely breathe.

 

He _hated_ crowds.

 

***

 

Meeting Steve's eyes across the room was like zeroing in on a target and scoring a superb hit, like playing the piano and finding that perfect rhythm, the perfect mood, the one you suspected the composer had had in mind when he wrote the piece. In that moment, Tony thought everything made sense and everything was going to be okay.

 

Steve looking away was hitting a high note and realizing _the fucking piano key was fucking out of tune_. Like walking down the red carpet and _stumbling_. Tony didn't stumble. He looked away himself, at once, and kept smiling, as blindingly as an explosion. At people. At everyone else.

 

Pushing away and forgetting, that was his shtick anyway. So, maybe it felt a little bit like cutting off his own hand, so what. He could do that. _You're being too dramatic_. There was this reasonable voice in his head, and it sounded a little bit like Jarvis – the real Jarvis. And he was probably right. It was just a moment, it meant nothing in the long run. They had talked. They had texted ( _In the previous six months you have been the one to initiate the conversation with Captain Rogers on 86.23 % occasions, boss_ , Friday had told him. He _knew_ he shouldn't have asked for stats).

 

He turned to Rhodey instead, opened his mouth.

 

But, "You okay?" Rhodey asked, stealing his line.

 

"Never better," Tony shot automatically, but Rhodey just closed his eyes and snorted lightly. "What's with you tonight, sweetcakes?"

 

Rhodey arched an eyebrow. "What's with _me_?"

 

"You seem off."

 

"Whoa. Thank you. That means _so much_ , coming from you." Only, Rhodey's wry reply seemed as automatic as Tony's own. And, kidding aside, his friend did seem kind of strange.

 

Pepper nudged Tony with her elbow, lightly, cutting off his attempt to press Rhodey further. "Natasha incoming," she hissed. "With the entourage." He could never figure out if Pepper and Natasha actually liked or disliked each other. Probably both, he figured.

 

No Barnes, Tony saw with a minuscule relief. When they were not forced to stand and fight side by side, as it happened on a few occasion during the Infinity War, they mostly did their best to avoid each other as unobtrusively as possible. He could deal with Barnes, he wasn't really important. But this was probably the easiest course for both of them.

 

There she was, sliding through the crowd. _Natasha. It's been some time; agent, traitor, friend._ The war hadn't touched her much, it seemed, but if you chose to trust appearances, you'd think nothing ever did. With Steve and Sam and Clint behind her, and Tony and Bruce and Thor in the front, now, it was as if she was ensconcing herself in their company, as if inside that circle she could just be herself, maybe a bit tired, maybe a bit happy. Tony _understood_ that.

 

She put both her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him briefly, then gave him the softest of pecks on the cheek and whispered: "Hey, Shellhead." And that was it, the moment of softness, come and gone, and when she pulled away, she was as unreadable as ever. But when Tony turned to Steve, she pinched his arm. Back to the playground, eh. She'd be taking his sand bucket next. Okay, so she was trying to tell him something, but Tony hadn't talked much to Nat of late, and he couldn't be sure what. _Be nice to Steve. Stay away from Steve._ It could be anything.

 

Steve was, however, busy at the moment, being wrapped in a giant bear hug of the Old Norse variant. Steve was probably the only one Thor could unleash the true force of his shoulder claps upon. Jesus Christ, Steve's back, his shoulder, the back of his neck, mildly pink with embarrassment. Tony never knew you could miss the way someone's neck met his meticulous hairline. It was so completely ridiculous. _He_ was being ridiculous.

 

He schooled his face as he shook Sam's hand and exchanged a few pleasantries – Sam was okay in his book, Sam was really all right, Tony liked him. He could imagine how easy a friendship with him would be. And then there was Clint, and holy hell, Tony would have sworn his hair had gone thinner, and there were some grays there, and he'd put on some weight. Clint seemed somewhat ill at ease, and before he knew what he was doing, Tony poked the man's waistline none too gently and said something on the line of _what the hell_ , and Clint laughed out and clapped him on the back and said "Hey, man. _Hey,_ man." Twice.

 

And then, out of a corner of his eye, he saw Steve finally being released from Thor's grip. Tony half expected Thor to propel Steve towards Tony or something equally horrifying. All Thor did, however, was mouth something at Tony over Steve's shoulder. It looked suspiciously like _Kyrumption._

 

Tony couldn't smile. It was as if he'd been hit with a spell, his muscles wouldn't obey; and all he could do was stand there with an expression that, at best, looked impassive, and at worst like fear. He felt a stone in his mouth, pressing his tongue down.

 

Steve stepped towards him. Steve extended his hand. And Tony could only stare into his eyes, trying to penetrate his thoughts. (It's _bullshit_ that eyes are a mirror of the soul, he thought, they are just an organ dammit, they don't tell you anything). He wanted Steve to not look away. He wanted Steve to show something, give him something, just a glimmer of hope. Just a hint that he felt anything, wanted anything from Tony that he didn't want from, say, Rhodey. Yes, they'd worked together marvelously during the war, and working beside Steve had felt like finding and old pair of jeans, and slipping them on, all soft from wear and years, and finding out they still fit so perfectly. And then... One night, after the fighting had been particularly bad, they'd gotten drunk – the two of them and Thor. And the later part of the evening was a bit of a blur for him, sliding uncontrollably into the blackout. He couldn't be sure now, but he thought they might have talked about the bad blood that was still there. No, they did talk about it, although Tony remembered the conversation in patches only – but those were important patches. They had patched up some of his heart quite nicely. There were even a few tears and some hugging, he thought, but that part he was mostly too embarrassed to think about.

 

In the morning, as he wondered what he'd said, he realized how much he fucking _loved_ Steve, just how much he missed him already, now that the man was half the world away (and hopefully not as hungover as Tony, since he was leading an important charge). _If you need me, I'll be there._ And Tony did need him, badly, all of a sudden, now that all the puzzle pieces had slid into place. He discovered that the line between need and anger was practically invisible. He also discovered he had absolutely no idea how to express what he now knew he was feeling. In the end, he sent a funny vid. It wasn't his best idea in the world, but it was _an_ idea.

 

And right now, as they shook hands – very properly – it was the same as with those stupid messages. Tony had no idea what Steve thought, what Steve felt. For a moment there, as his hand lay in Steve's, Tony thought Steve was going to cover it with his left too, and... _that_ would have been something. A sign. Tony _knew_ Steve cared about him, to a degree. _Otherwise he wouldn't have cried, right?_ a small part of him added, the one that remembered more of that evening than Tony cared to admit. But how much did he care, in what manner? If he knew anything in life, Tony knew one thing: he would never ever ask.

 

"So, you went with burgundy, then?" Steve asked with a small smile, and it brought Tony back to reality. He snatched his hand back, because he knew he'd been holding on Steve's for too long. It must have been awkward for Steve. The thought of discovery was mortifying.

 

"Eh," Tony said, trying to hunt down his words and put them in proper order. "Burgundy, yeah. So. Hi, Steve. You all right?"

 

 "Yeah." And then, as an afterthought. "Hello, Tony."

 

Steve seemed uncomfortable, but, then again, Steve always seemed uncomfortable in crowds, if you knew the tells. His spine was as straight as one of Clint's arrows, and by the appearance of it, way stiffer. And there was this little twitch of the hand, as if he wanted to rub the back of his neck, in confusion, in doubt, but decided against it. His gaze unwavering, he was staring directly at Tony, as if he expected something from him. Tony had no idea what. He longed for an excuse to touch Steve again – brush an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, straighten his perfectly straight lapel – _anything_. And, weirdly, uncharacteristically, he had no idea whatsoever what to say.

 

"Er..." he began when the silence stretched for too long. He was aware of two concentric circles of observers, their friends, and then the inevitable gawkers who wanted to stare at Captain America (and at him, of course at him, always). Tony didn't care. He stood there. He swallowed. "So. How was the flight?"

 

Steve frowned. "The flight?"

 

"The flight. Here? You didn't walk all the way to Norway, did you. The flight."

 

"Oh. Fine. It was fine."

 

The awkwardness was like a blazing physical pain. And while there was this one part of Tony that couldn't help but think that Steve simply didn't want to talk to him, another part of him had to notice, had to see how intensely Steve was looking at him, how his voice was a little strangled, how he seemed to be floundering for words too.

 

And so it went on. Standing so close to each other. Still, not moving forward, not an inch, neither of them. Tony would have thought being near Steve would be enough – ah, the little lies he told himself at night – but now it wasn't, _of course_ it wasn't. He wanted _everything_ ; he thought he would burst with the frustrated wanting.

 

Yet another silence, that now stretched between them, was simply too much to bear.

 

Almost simultaneously – or so it seemed to Tony – they turned aside, looking for a way out. And Tony said: "Oh, I have to..." and Steve said, "Oh, there's Bucky, I'm just going to..." and just like that they were apart, and the subsequent relief did nothing to fill the emptiness Tony felt.

 

***

The musicians were playing something soft and unrecognizable and vaguely Baroque-like, a violin concerto or other. The people around Tony, even his friends – progressively more relaxed with one another now, joking, laughing, forming and reforming subgroups in a curious, almost observable rhythm – suddenly seemed pale and, to Tony, hard to concentrate on. His mind, his gaze, kept slipping away. It was all happening around him, not _to_ him. And to think he'd almost looked forward to this event. All ridiculous, now. Unimportant. What was important was the darkness in his belly, and normally he'd grin and tell a story and be a center of attention in order to drown the noise in his head with more noise. And he will, soon, he will. He just needed...

 

"Wombat!" He knew his enthusiasm to talk to Rhodey seemed extravagant, but he _needed_ to focus on something in order not to turn around and watch Steve's back disappearing into the crowd. (Steve's back was impossible to miss in a crowd, no matter how much the man might want to vanish.)

 

"It went that bad, huh,“ muttered Rhodey, casting a glance over Tony's shoulder, then locking back onto Tony's gaze. _Worse_ , Tony thought. He had walked away, and no matter how much he had wanted to look back, he didn't. Steve wouldn't. Steve wouldn't, and it was almost like a competition, he felt, a competition who could care less. He was very determined to win.

 

 _This_ , he thought in a glamorous, announcer's voice, _is how you ruin your life._

 

"No idea what you are talking about," Tony said blithely, more a reflex than anything else.

 

Barely perceptibly, Rhodey shook his head: "Tones..." And then, in a changed voice: "Will you ever tire from going down the list of Australian animals...?"

 

And Tony knew the game, knew the voice, and as a couple walking by stopped to listen in, his automatic response was: "No luck there, Dingo. Besides, wombats are cute, have you even seen a wombat?"

 

The couple moved on, finding the topic decidedly uninteresting. The sound of violins, as well as the waves of laughter, were jarring to Tony, verging on unbearable. He needed to capture them and repurpose them and use them to his own advantage. The violins. The laughter. Everything.

 

 _"The Guardians of the Galaxy,"_ the announcer intoned from the top of the stairs, and Tony's gaze wandered over for a moment, and focused; he caught himself smiling suddenly, almost imperceptibly. It will be good to see everyone again, especially Peter.

 

Gathering his thoughts, Tony looked at Rhodey. His friend still seemed tense – but not tense with frustration; it almost seemed like anticipation.

 

"What's going on with you anyway?" Tony muttered, after shaking an offered, unidentified hand and trading a pair of fake smiles with someone or other.

 

Rhodey opened his mouth to say something, then apparently changed his mind, hissed: " _Shut up,_ " out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Tony looked to the side, but the person approaching was just Carol. Rhodey seemed to already have spotted her. For a moment Tony wondered what the deal was; this wasn't like Rhodey and Carol at all, they were all about honesty and openness. Their romance seemed whirlwind fast to Tony. After the few initial, tentative steps, they skipped and skidded through most of the flirtation, and slid straight into the rock-solid area of an actual relationship. Tony had mentioned it, and Rhodey had said: "Jesus, Tony, I'm turning 49 this year, and either me or Carol could pretty much get killed in combat any day of the week. I don't waste time." It seemed like a solid strategy to Tony; he wished he himself could ever get to a level higher than high school, but there were games he simply wasn't any good at.

 

There was something nervous about the way Rhodey beamed at Carol. "There you are," he said. She reached up to touch his shoulder, just briefly, but for her that was plenty demonstrative. "And you," Rhodey added, turning to Tony.

 

Carol let out something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "Yes, sweetie, here we all are."

 

Rhodey shoved a hand into his pocket. "Oh, good," he said, and seemed to have forgotten what he was about. Carol sneaked a questioning look at Tony, who shrugged helplessly. Something seemed to be the matter, but it didn't seem particularly serious.

 

"Right," Rhodey said suddenly. "Well. Uh. What I was going to..."

 

This was when Tony spotted a green hand that tapped Rhodey's shoulder. Then his own upper arm found itself caught in a vice-like grip, and he was being turned around and then wrapped in a twiggy, branchy embrace. As soon as he was released, there was an insistent, none too gentle push against his thigh, and a furry hand being extended upwards for Tony to shake; and then Peter was pulling him into a one-armed hug, and then the throng of the others, and the hellos and the laughter and the chatter. Tony was happy to see them all, after almost a year, and _such is the way of galas_ he thought at Rhodey helplessly. You never could manage a conversation longer than three sentences tops.

 

He stole a glance into the throng of people, in the direction Steve had disappeared in, but he was not there. Of course he wasn't, what did you expect, he told himself. The crowd in that spot seemed particularly empty and cheerless to Tony.

 

His phone beeped, but despite a wild surge of hope – unfounded, since Steve wasn't much of a texter – he saw a years old, redheaded, longhaired picture appear on screen.

 

_Why were you acting so constipated back there, ffs?_

 

 _No idea what you are talking about, Romanoff_ , he typed back.

 

Tony knew exactly what Natasha was talking about.

 

***

 

Steve snatched a canapé like he would a lifebelt, and sighed.

 

Tony had let him hold his hand for eleven and a half seconds, then confiscated it.

 

Tony had said few words; Steve had said fewer.

 

It used to be so much easier to talk to Tony. But, Steve had to admit, it was mainly because Tony himself had talked, and it was enough for Steve to just be there, and react, and say something now and again; it had all seemed deceptively easy. Now Tony was uncharacteristically silent (and awkward; and abrupt) and Steve couldn't figure out why.

(He was still angry, of course he was, Steve figured. Only, he didn't seem angry via texts, but maybe it's easier not to sound angry when you just joke and send funnies). (Maybe he wasn't angry any longer. Maybe he just didn't have anything to say to Steve.)

 

Tony had turned and walked away, but, to be completely honest, so did Steve. It took Steve a fraction of a second to turn his head and look back. Nothing. Then, a heartbeat later, he looked again. Still nothing. He stayed locked in that silly position for a little while, and _look back, look back, look back,_ he thought at Tony, because if Tony did, if their gazes locked through the throng of people, if they exchanged smiles, perhaps – it seemed to Steve it would all be all right, somehow, it would all make sense. It would have been enough.

 

Honestly, it would have been enough for him just to be there quietly, just to stand beside Tony. He could have hung back. Clint and Sam had stayed, chatting with the others; and there was Thor, Thor was always easy to talk to. The others too – everyone, really, they were all okay again, weren't they. But stupidly, stupidly he'd opted for escape because he had no idea what to say or where to look, because his eyes seemed uncontrollably, magnetically drawn to Tony's eyes and Tony's lips. Steve had missed his face, even when it spooned out fake smiles.

 

"You create a diversion, I'll grab the food, meet you at the fire escape."

 

Steve looked at Bucky, who, despite the attempt at gruff humor, seemed as uncomfortable as himself. Too many people in one place raised Bucky's hackles, they rubbed him wrong, everything about crowds seemed wrong to him now. They'd talked about it. _They obstruct the line of sight and get in the way,_ Bucky had said. _They are people, Buck,_ Steve had said, and he'd sounded uptight, he knew that. Just like he did when he said something he felt _needed to_ be said, even if he didn't mean it too deeply. _When there's so many of them, I stop seeing faces,_ Bucky had retorted, and nothing much could be said to that.

 

"I wish we could still get pissed," Steve sighed, looking at the cocktail waiter somewhat wistfully. "Do you sometimes wish we could get pissed?"

 

"Don't know I'd dare get pissed," Bucky threw back, and that was basically all it was about. Bucky was like a one-man bomb disposal squad, always alert, always on the ready. Only the bomb he was looking for was himself. Even after they'd removed the Hydra conditioning, this had stayed.

 

Crowds nettled Bucky now, rattled him, jarred him. Crowds made _Steve_ feel as if he was slowly dissolving, as if he was fading until there was nothing left at all. They were a fantastic party duo, the two of them, he thought.

 

Steve shook someone's hand – a solid handshake, as he _himself_ was solid; a solid, _solid_ guy – and he nodded, and said a few choice words, and _it was an honor, sir_. What the hell are you supposed to say to a chancellor, anyway?

 

Sneaking a look over the man's shoulder, Steve spotted Logan, chewing on a cigar, nursing a tumbler of something amber-colored and trying to look as unapproachable as possible. Someone wasn't so good at reading the signs – a person, pushing forcibly in front of the guy, sticking out their hand like a lance.

 

"Well, thank you for your service!" Politely, yes, but aggressively, almost insolently. Practically demanding in their thankfulness.

 

Logan gave the person a one-over. "Aw, fuck off, will ya."

 

 _Only once,_ Steve thought secretly, so secretly that it was almost a secret from himself. _If I could do something like that only once_ , although he knew he couldn't be that impolite to anyone, not even in the privacy of his head.

 

He'd even turned off his phone, because he thought it was probably inappropriate to have it ring (although the others didn't seem to be having too much trouble with that). He now turned it on in his pocket and sneaked a look at the clock. There were new messages of course. He scanned them, and _there._ The familiar thrill that ran through him, so intense he almost shivered physically. He opened the one from Tony.

 

**So, why were you acting so constipated, back there?**

 

Trying to suppress a smile and failing, Steve wondered if he should be a little offended at this, but it was just Tony being Tony, and at this point Steve wanted to see him so much that it hurt in his chest.

 

Next message from Tony was another animal video, not even a funny one, just a cute basset hound with sad, sad eyes turning its ass to a kids' birthday party behind him, putting his head down on his front paws and staring at the wall in utter resignation.

 

The messages were sent almost half an hour ago, and he couldn't see Tony in the crowd, despite the fact he spotted some of their other friends, far away. Natasha, Bruce, Clint, Thor, although still kind of tentative, all seemed genuinely happy to see one  another again. Even Bruce had seemed almost at ease. And a part of Steve longed to go and join them, feel the old camaraderie seep into him, but more urgent than that was the almost physical need to find Tony, to _talk_ to him,  if only to tell him he had no idea what to tell him; if only to let him know that, if only he knew how to string words together, he'd _love_ to talk to Tony all night.

 

(Tony wasn't so good at responding to such, anyway. Steve suspected his reply would have been something on the lines of 'if you behave, I might even let you'. Even at their best days, Steve could never figure out if he was actually joking or not.)

 

***

 

In a flash of _wow, what a great idea_ , Tony had typed up a message to Steve – retyped Nat's question, actually. Then, a fraction of a second after he hit send, the idea seemed far less great and he wondered how much more of an asshole he could be in Steve's eyes anyway and why in the world he couldn't say anything normal like, _wanna hang out a bit?_

 

He didn't know how to say anything else after that, so he sent a vid that was supposed to convey _I hate it here too!_ Then, after he sent it, he came up with 32 different ways Steve could misinterpret it, 24 of them offensive. For a short while he contemplated finding Steve and somehow stealing his phone – deleting the messages – crushing the device – buying the mobile provider and deleting the texts from the servers...

 

Steve's phone was off, for better or worse. There was also a normal-person option of finding Steve and actually striking up a conversation. And he did intend to do it, he _did_ , no matter how scary it might seem. Conversation, take 2. Steer clear of a) weather, b) politics, c) _so, how was the flight_ (because that would be the third time he asked, and really). No, scratch that, maybe even politics could work. _Anything_.

 

Just... He needed a moment. He needed _air_ or he was going to strangle himself with his own smile. He'd escaped onto the balcony, and thanks to the lovely Norwegian weather, it wasn't occupied. Shivers and the dampness weren't so bad, really. Just a bit of air.

 

This was how Peter Quill found him: both elbows on the railing (mildly wet, oh well), eyes closed. Tony heard the balcony door behind him, probably someone sneaking out to have a smoke (and _crap, can't I be alone for just a minute_ ). He didn't open his eyes, deciding to go by the old kids' principle: if I can't see them, maybe they can't see me either. Instead of a click of a lighter, however, he became aware of someone crowding him a little bit – just an unknown body in his space, uncomfortable for a moment – until the person settled, leaning against the railing beside him, his shoulder rubbing against Tony's with familiarity. And there was a tiny moment of wild hope, and a thought suspiciously shaped like _Steve_ shot through his mind. But it wasn't, it couldn't be...

 

He didn't let himself feel disappointed when he heard the voice.

 

"Hey, my dude."

 

It was difficult not to smile at Peter Quill, even when you really, really wanted to sink into melancholy and stay there. Tony allowed one corner of his mouth to go up and gave Peter an amused look.

 

"Hey you. Enjoying the bash?"

 

A tux, really? Just.. no. It wasn't about looks, not so much. You wouldn't stick Han Solo in a tux, would you? It was simply unnatural. Still, Peter seemed perfectly self-assured and completely and blessedly unaware of any out-of-placeness, which was a part of his charm.

 

"The bash?" Peter said, puzzled for a moment, and then he brightened. "Oh, the party. You kids with your new slang." He cast a glance over his shoulder, shrugged than leaned even closer to Tony: "A bit quiet for my taste." Then he straightened up. "And this is me saying it. _Me._ I've been to _Aedian_ parties, my man."

 

He shot a look at Tony, as if expecting a laugh. Tony's eyebrow shot up. "Feel free to refresh my memory, Pete.“

 

"They're a telepathic race? They don't talk aloud?"

 

Tony fought a smile, gave up. "Not bad," he commented. They were still leaning against the railing, side by side, shoulders touching, and it was so _relaxed_. He felt he could chat to Peter about nothing in particular for ages and never tire of it. Also it was nice, having another chatterbox there, so that he didn't have to fill all the silences himself. It was _easy._ Treacherously so, a stray thought jittered his mind; why couldn't it ever be this easy with Steve? But that was... just different.

 

He liked the feel of Peter's shoulder against his, his fine, firm upper arm against his own. Comforting, _good_. It wasn't an electric jolt, though. There was no emptiness in his stomach because Peter was there, that unbearable urge to touch, to feel, to reach and _try_ something, anything that would fill the said emptiness. Like it happened with Steve – another rogue thought, he pushed it away, didn't know what to do with it. With Peter it was just... fun.

 

"So, the music or the people?" he heard himself ask, and his tone was light, playful. Maybe there was nothing wrong with just fun, after all.

  
"The music or the people what?" Peter _was_ kind of giving him these long looks; he had a tendency to start with such whenever they spent any time together.

 

"Which is worse, I mean?"

 

And they _did_ spend some time together whenever Peter was on Earth – which was not often, but still. They made time to just _hang out._

 

"Nah," Peter was saying in reply. "I like it how many people there are, actually. Diff countries, all that. Besides, I did get to see Sam and Kamala, so that's a bonus." Peter had shared a hospital room with both of them at different points of the war. "And then there's my Monarch of the Balcony" – Peter leaned into him a bit, nudging him with his shoulder, and his tone was playful and wry. It was straddling the line between the flirty and not, which seemed to happen quite a lot with him. "And that's a heavy weight argument right there, buddy. As for the music – you know what, I've heard worse. Speed it up a little, throw in the beat, it'd be perfectly fine. Although," he continued, "I do like my lyrics, if you know what I mean. But what's bothering me right now is, _no one's moving._ That's a bit weird, isn't it?"

 

Tony liked blasting his music when he was angry or sad or needed to think. But Peter – Peter wanted to blast it _always_ , and sing along, and it seemed his foot never stopped tapping to the rhythm. His musical tastes swerved wildly between cool and utterly ridiculous; Tony kind of enjoyed that too. And the man _did_ seem hopelessly stuck in the eighties.

 

"Well," Tony commented. "There _will_ be some dancing, later in the evening, but not exactly of the sort you like."

Peter laughed. "Hey, as long as it gets the crowd going. Besides, you _did_ promise to take me clubbing some time, show me how it's done, all that."

Tony rolled his eyes. "For the tenth time, I was high on adrenaline at the time. You can't take that seriously. Besides, if you'd come back earlier, maybe. As it is, I aged out of clubbing in the meantime. I had to get out before it got embarrassing."

 

Both Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Embarrassing? Dancing _can't_ be embarrassing!"

 

Tony felt an irresistible urge to stick his tongue out. "Yeah, you never went clubbing in Malibu." Vaguely, he nodded towards the balcony door, from where the tendrils of a waltz sneaked in. Tony actually quite liked the piece. "You turn 44, you're allowed to dance to _that_ only, and that's it. That's your landmark birthday."

 

"Noooo," Peter was shaking his head. "Here, let me show you." He dug out something from his pocket and – _oh my god, no, he's still got the abomination_ – it was his Microsoft Zune.

 

Tony rolled his eyes. "You can't pull that thing out in my presence. It literally hurts to look at it."

 

" _Hey._ Don't you insult my music player!" After a moment of struggling with entangled cable, he extended one earphone to Tony while he put the other to his own ear. "Wait a sec. I wanted to play this for you anyway."

 

It took almost a minute for the song to actually start, and it took Tony a few more seconds to recognize it. It was one of the hits that you heard everywhere, and then, two or three years later, everyone forgot about them.

 

 _I'm a motherfuckin' starboy_... The beat was kind of contagious, though.

 

And Peter got hold of Tony's hand and pulled him in – not really, but a little bit, so that they were standing closer to each other, the earphone cord pulling them together; and than even closer than that. And Peter started moving, urging Tony to do the same.

 

"You do realize you playing this for me is just a notch better than if I played Sabbath's _Iron Man_ for you." Tony tried for a dry tone, but the rhythm was pulling at him, he had to admit that, and Peter was grinning, and still didn't let go of Tony's hand.

 

" _Move_ , old man!" Peter's smile was infectious.

 

Tony refused to think of Steve in this moment. (His Steve, Steve that _wasn't_ his, Steve whose head was the biggest mystery of all, Steve that drove him crazy, Steve that... _no._ )

 

 _Where's the harm in a bit of dancing,_ Tony thought. And he started moving with the beat.

 

***

 

Steve couldn't see Tony anywhere, but he _did_ spot Rhodey and Carol, surrounded by a sea of minglers and officials and fans. Steve waited for a lull. Rhodey seemed uncharacteristically nervous, for some reason. He seemed to be toying with something in his jacket pocket, sneaking weird looks at Carol. He seemed on the verge of opening his mouth to say something, then apparently changed his mind. This happened twice as Steve looked on.

 

Feeling faintly embarrassed, as if he had been eavesdropping, he tapped Rhodey on the shoulder. A mixture of annoyance and relief crossed Rhodey's face.. "What's up, Cap?"

 

"Have you seen Tony?"

 

Rhodey rolled his eyes and breathed something that pretty much sounded like _thank fuck_. Then he pointed out of the huge ballroom they were in, in the direction of one of the smaller drawing rooms... And Steve didn't really hear the rest of the directions, because he was politely interrupted by T'Challa, hand in hand with Storm, and then they all had to chat for a while. Rhodey still kept sneaking glances at Carol. Steve wondered what that was all about.

 

***

 

Last time he'd been alone with Tony, there was a roof in Berlin, and jam donuts, and Thor's mead too. Steve'd needed alcohol that _worked_ – just a sip, in order to feel himself _let go_ , if for a moment. The fighting had been particularly nasty that day. It didn't bear remembering. When the lull finally came, he and Tony had found each other, fallen into step as if by magic, as if for a moment the past didn't exist. Right then it certainly seemed the future wouldn't either. And they found out they couldn't exactly go rest, either of them, no matter how tired they were. Thor had kept them company, to start with, but as the night progressed, he, uncharacteristically, melted away and left the two of them to their intricate lacework of conversation and silences. And that was that – their first and last real talk since the Civil War. Steve wasn't embarrassed he cried, because certain things require crying, as long as no one found out. And when you're drunk it doesn't really count, does it? Also, he had been pretty discreet about it and maybe Tony hadn't noticed...

 

But it had been over a year since that night, and they'd been too busy or too awkward to do anything but text when they weren't organizing and coordinating. What Steve now wanted, what he craved, was some quiet time with Tony for a change, without a million other people around and a million things that needed doing the-day-before-yesterday-don't-we-have-a-time-machine-yet-dammit. A silly chat, about clothes, about movies, like when they texted, but in person, because to Steve it made a world of difference. Even if Tony didn't see him – he faltered, searching for an expression – in a romantic light, he supposed. Because of course Tony didn't, it was just Steve's wishful thinking. And yet... Did he imagine the hints? Because the what-ifs wouldn't leave him alone and hope was unavoidable. There was nothing he could do about that.

 

In any case – Steve suspected – if they could be alone for a little while and somehow wade through the awkwardness and emerge on the other side, maybe they could go back to being friends, maybe find their feet again; he'd be okay with that too, he really would. He'd set his hopes on tonight, and this was exactly what he'd pictured. All their friends, so happy to be alive and victorious and – finally – reunited that they'd barely notice Steve and Tony slip away to somewhere more private, to talk or not to talk, as it happened, but at least to do it together.

 

He found the drawing room Rhodey had pointed out to him, but it was empty and, although it wasn't off limits for the guests, it wasn't exactly lit yet. Steve expected it would be made more welcoming later in the evening, when the dancers took over the ballroom floor and the others wanted to sit somewhere quieter.

 

It was very definitely vacant. Still, a sound drew his attention, and he spotted a balcony door, left ajar. And through it, a smiling Tony, quite unaware of Steve, moving to the inaudible beat, dancing quite close to – Steve's breath stopped, hurt – the Star-Lord. Peter Quill, who had the easy charm and six quips a the ready at all times, who bantered with Tony over the comms in battles, the way Steve used to before everything started going to shit; Quill, who managed to maintain an easy friendship with Tony without the bad beginnings and misunderstandings and the struggle that were the mark of Steve and Tony's relationship even while everything was _okay_ between them. And now Tony was wearing that relaxed grin Steve hadn't seen in ages, and they were dancing together on an unlit balcony, and Quill's hand hovered in the air, just barely touching Tony's elbow. It was like a fist to the stomach. Steve turned around and strode out, back towards the ballroom, away, _away,_ as far as possible, swallowing the distance like never before.

 

***

 

Tony could talk to Peter no problem, Tony could _dance_ with Peter no problem, because, even though Peter was likable and fun, well, it didn't _matter_ in the long run. Tony didn't get frozen and stupid and lost when things didn't really matter.

 

He stopped. (The song was drawing to a close anyway.) He took the ear-bud out, held it out to Peter. "I can't," he said simply.

 

Because, on the inside he was empty, and the emptiness echoed with longing, echoed with a frustrated, unbearable _want_ , and it wasn't Peter he craved right now, no matter how sweet and charming he was. It was _Steve_ with his idiotic, curt responses and his stupid, stiff back and his unease in crowds and his sass and his kind eyes. It was _Steve_. And he'd known it all along, of course he had, he just let himself get carried away because it would be so easy to fall into his old patterns and try to drown these unbearable feelings in other sensations. But it wasn't fair to anyone involved, and especially not to Peter.

 

Peter put the mp3 player away, gave Tony a wry smile. "And here I thought it was going so well." He didn't sound particularly put out by this development, however. "You okay there?"

 

"I'm..." Tony began; paused. I'm _what exactly?_ Not emotionally available? Sounded like something out of a pop-psych article you'd scroll trough on the toilet. _I'm in love with someone else?_ Because he was, he was, it was time he admitted it to himself finally. He was so far gone there was no way back now. Did he want to get into that with Peter Quill, who had just tried to take their casual flirty thing to the next level? Well, not really.

 

"Don't apologize," Peter said, typically misreading his intention. Then he peered into Tony's face, frowning a bit. "Wanna share that crap with a friend, man?"

 

"I'm not exactly emotionally available," Tony muttered unhappily, hating every word of the stupid phrase.

 

"What?" Then Peter's face cleared. "Oh. You've got your radars set on someone else. That's fine."

 

Tony turned away, leaned against the railing, cast a long, non-seeing glance across the plaza and the surrounding park. "I guess that's pretty accurate, yeah," he said.

 

"Who?" Peter leaned against the railing beside him, for all the world as if he was preparing to hear a juicy piece of gossip.

 

"I don't really think..."

 

"Aw, come on, _spill_. I'm leaving the planet first thing tomorrow, who can I tell?" He grinned. "Except half the galaxy, of course."

 

Tony snorted. "Yeah, I bet everyone's dying to know." He turned to Peter, raised an eyebrow. "You're being pretty cool about this."  

 

Peter shrugged. "Oh, you know, I didn't want to marry you or anything Just thought we could have a bit of fun before I go." And then, after a second's thought. " _I'm always cool._ Yep, shoulda opened with that one. Oh well, now."

 

"It _would_ have been fun," Tony conceded. "I didn't think it would be fair to you, though. I... I'm not _with_ anyone. But my mind would be elsewhere."

 

"So," Peter said shrewdly, "how come you are on the balcony, then, talking to me half the evening?"

 

Tony shrugged, somewhat dejectedly. It was getting really cold outside, but he dreaded getting back in and facing everyone again. (Facing Steve again, Steve that didn't have anything to say to him, Steve who seemed so uncomfortable, Steve whom Tony hadn't exactly given a chance before he decided to run to Rhodey.) "We didn't get off on a great start, tonight."

 

Peter's eyebrows slowly rose, higher and higher, as if something suddenly dawned on him. "Cap? Really?"

 

Tony jerked in surprise, shot a questioning look at Peter. (But he didn't deny it, didn't know how to, had absolutely no idea how to get the lie _I'm not in love with Steve_ past his lips.)

 

"What?" Peter said. "I saw you from up on the stairs, the way you were fumbling your way around each other as if you haven't saved each other's life a dozen times that I know of." He paused. "It's him, right?"

 

Tony just sighed in acknowledgement.

 

Peter seemed intent on this line of inquiry. "So, have you told him? No, of course you haven't, have you."

 

"I... very much haven't told him."

 

"You should tell him.. He's a good guy, Tony. I think he really is. It's just..." Peter leaned to him conspiratorially, tapped his temple with his forefinger twice. "I think he's really thick skulled when it comes to certain matters."

 

Tony couldn't help but snort. "You said it, buddy. But, to be honest, I don't think I'm much better at it."

 

Peter gave him a once over. "Yeah, but feeling the way you do, you've got more to lose by not talking than by talking. And he seemed as weirded out as you did, now that I think about it. Tony, I don't think he'll blow you off. You gotta try."

 

 _You gotta try._ It sounded so deceptively easy and doable when someone else said it, didn't it?

 

***

 

For Steve, it had almost been easier while he thought Tony was never going to forgive him. Well, no, that wasn't true, but it was like a tiny black hole taking a permanent residence inside your chest, and it loved the neighborhood, it never planned to move away, and in the end you somehow made your peace with it. (Black holes don't exactly hurt, they just swallow everything else.) And then, after a few missions together, after they finally talked... Well, after that, it was just a little bit unbearable, like wanting to explode and implode at the same time, the joy and the sheer _uncertainty_ as to what would happen next, and the old feelings hitting back with a vengeance.

 

Steve had reined them in. And that was almost easier too. He neatly convinced himself that he'd never have a chance with Tony, how could he. And then it was practically the same as before, the quiet longing, always there. He was used to it by now, and it was almost comforting. Whatever happened, he had that tiny patch of comfort in his chest, knowing Tony was out there; just knowing it was enough. (There was also a permanent,  sheer terror that something would happen to Tony, but that was a different story.)

 

And then the texts started – not exactly frequent, but not infrequent either; just frequent or infrequent enough for Steve to be unable to figure out what Tony wanted.

 

And now it was apparent everything Steve thought – believed, hoped – Tony maybe wanted – well, it had all gone to shit. He'd been wrong. He let his hopes get the better of him. He let himself expect the unobtainable, somehow, for some reason, and he screwed up. Now all he needed to do was rewind, go back, go back to that place where he didn't expect anything, didn't hope for anything at all, and he could go on living like before, right, if only...

 

If only the hurt didn't burn so brightly in his chest, if only it wasn't so searing hot. Groundless, he tried telling himself, because nothing had really happened with Tony, nothing had been said, nothing promised... But his own voice sounded feeble in his head. Quieter and quieter, in fact, as he felt something like a tide of resentment wash over him, filling him head to toe, _becoming_ him.

 

The world wasn't fair. Well, of course it wasn't. When had it ever been?

 

He swallowed. He kept it in check. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he zeroed in on Thor. You could talk to Thor without too much preamble, thankfully.

 

"Got some of that mead on you?" he asked.

 

Thor grinned and said something about drinking himself to courage, and _let me tell you about a thing called Kyrumption, my friend_ , but Steve didn't exactly stop to listen. His insides were so hot the booze felt like a trickle of cool spring water. It quenched the anger somehow, and what resulted from it was a perfect, gleaming silvery blade, cool like glass and much, much harder, where his heart used to be.

 

***

 

"You used to be some kind of psychologist, right?" Bucky asked Sam somewhat later, when they found him by the huge ornate windows that made Steve's head hurt a little.

 

A bit earlier, Steve had left Thor chatting with Storm ( _not_ about the weather!) and located Bucky beause, he figured, Bucky wouldn't pester him about anything. Well, tough luck.

 

Steve rolled his eyes now. "Buck. Really."

 

"No, no," Sam said dryly. "That's my favorite intro. When people ask me that, I know it's going to be good. Also," he turned to Bucky, one eyebrow sharply raised, "no. I did not." His voice could be used for cutting glass, but Steve knew him and detected a tiny under-layer of wry amusement.

 

"I'm actually all right," Steve told Bucky, uselessly, for the third time.

 

At that Sam gave him a skeptical look. "When you say it like that, I know you aren't. What's up?"

 

"He's acting crazy," Bucky said, addressing Sam as if Steve weren't even there.

 

"Crazy how?"

 

"I'm not... Will you _stop_ that, you two?"

 

"He's got crazy eyes," Bucky went on.

 

"I _don't_ have crazy eyes, stop that already, what's wrong with you?"

 

"You do. I know the look. You are going to deck someone. Steve, are you going to deck someone? Because I think that would be highly frowned upon here."

 

"I'm not going to _deck_ anyone." (Steve very much wanted to deck someone, but felt instantly guilty about it.)

 

Sam gave them both a cool once over. "Back to high school," he commented to himself. "Yay. Steve, is this about Stark?"

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "And when is it _not_ about Stark?"

 

"It's not..." Steve paused, sighed. "Look, I don't want to talk about this, all right? It's nothing. I miscalculated. That's all."

 

Sam shot him a sharp look. "Are you sure you're not miscalculating _now_?"

 

Steve knew his chuckle sounded harsher than he intended. "Yeah. Completely sure."

 

He spotted Sharon in the crowd, and all of a sudden talking to her sounded like the best of all possible ideas that floated around the universe, yet unclaimed.

 

***

 

Sharon: pretty, yes, but also pretty _deadly_ , which was always a plus in Steve's book; a series of running jokes they shared; greeted him with _hey, neighbor_ on a gala in a royal palace in Norway, to the amusement and disbelief of the surrounding people; she had always been cool, really.

 

 _Why couldn't I have fallen in love with her?_ Steve wandered, not for the first time.

 

Tony: approaching trough the crowd, and _swerve, swerve, go away, please,_ because Steve didn't want to see him now, didn't want to hear his voice, to know, couldn't stand to look into his eyes (warm and beautiful and so expressive... _no, stop that_ ), not right now. Please go away. _Please._

 

Tony didn't. He didn't leave him alone despite the fact that Steve probably appeared to be in a deep conversation with Sharon, standing close to her. Steve had _tried_ to focus on her, searched his feelings for the umpteenth time. _Liking_ was there, sure enough; plenty of affection too, and a truckload of respect. Sharon was a very dear friend. He knew he was deluding himself, though. He needed a momentary escape from pain, just something else that would stir his emotions, and it didn't happen. Of course it didn't. You can't start feeling something just because you _want_ to. You can't stop either.

 

Well, if he was being honest with himself, it wasn't just escape he was looking for. A tiny, despicable part of himself _wanted_ Tony to see him now, to see him _like Steve saw him with Peter Quill_ , intent on someone else. _I don't care about you_ , he wanted to say, to lie. _I'm busy._ And he knew how petty it was, so he stopped with that, stepped back, had to keep himself in check, had to keep it down, had to...

 

His suit jacket felt so tight he couldn't breathe (although, rationally, he knew it was a perfect fit). Steve needed to move. Needed to not have the press of people around him. The muscles of his legs danced with suppressed claustrophobia.

 

He closed his eyes, just for a second. Took a breath.

 

And then Tony was there, smiling genially, kissing Sharon on the cheek, chatting politely for a minute. And Steve could do this, he could. They were... Give or take everything else, they were friends, and he couldn't let his unchecked feelings ruin that. But then Tony sneaked a look at him, one of those searing hot looks under his eyelashes. Steve's stomach clenched painfully. The anger surged back, then, because what business did Tony have, looking at him like that. Let him look at Peter Quill like that. (Steve didn't have a problem with Peter, he told himself, repeatedly and not as convincingly as he might have wanted; he had a problem with _Tony_.)

 

All Steve could do was stand there and wait.

 

Tony turned to him, then – pleasant, always pleasant, pointedly including Sharon in the conversation – one hand on Sharon's shoulder, one on Steve's...

 

"So? You guys having fun?" And it was fake, it was all fake. Tony's eyes told a different story, whatever it was, and for the life of him Steve couldn't figure out what it was Tony was doing, or _why._

 

 _Probably just being friendly_ , an inner voice of reason told him. _Probably just..._

 

Sharon wasn't much of a chatterbox, in general. She mostly managed to convey what she meant with a glance, a smirk. She now swept the room filled with – what was it, probably hundreds – of people with her gaze and directed an amused, questioning look at Tony, as if to say: _Really? Is that the line you went with? Here?_

 

"What?" Tony said, eyes on Sharon. "Old friends, new acquaintances, all that. You can laugh at all the silly, stuck up people." And Sharon said something in response, but all Steve was aware of was Tony's hand o his shoulder, burning like a supernova, his fingers curling ever so slightly into the fabric of Steve's jacket. Steve wanted to push the hand away, angrily – _leave me alone, leave me alone already_ – and at the same time he wanted to hold Tony close, as close as humanly possible, and bury his nose in Tony's neck.

 

Tony leaned closer to both of them, almost pulling them into a huddle, and shared a piece of gossip. It was harmless, funny, so why did it rub Steve so wrong? An unexpected laugh escaped from Sharon's lips, jingling and surprised, and as she turned her eyes on Tony in mock-reproach, Steve felt a stab of hot jealousy again, even though this time, _this_ time he knew there was nothing to it, he was just being a crazy ass; Bucky had read him right, as always.

 

"How about you, old man?" Tony asked conversationally, turning to Steve, unaware of what was going on in his head. "Going stir-crazy already?"

 

Steve did his best to be normal. Be a normal human being for once, he told himself, keep it down, keep the feelings on a low simmer; but that was bad, that was the recipe for letting pain show through the anger, and he didn't know how to deal with pain.

 

"It's a fine party," he managed. He knew he sounded stiff and cold.

 

Tony gave him a measuring look. "Really?" he said, not buying it for one minute. (His dry voice, his dancing eyes, oh _god_.) "I'd have thought you'd be out of here by now, honestly." It seemed almost like a question, almost as if Tony was expecting something from him, an answer, an explanation, but of what? And the terrifying realization that Tony saw _through_ him, down to all the uneasiness and claustrophobia and vulnerability, somehow, it shot through him, making him even stiffer, even more prone to be on the defensive.

 

"This is a party in our honor, Tony," he said, and he knew he sounded like a jerk, stuck-up and patronizing and aloof.

 

Tony hid his jerk of surprise well, but Steve noticed it, he felt it in his bones: a stab of regret, black and inconsolable. Because Tony seemed to be asking him why, why are you being like this to me, why now? What did I do? Which was a perfectly understandable question, really, because Tony considered him a friend, and he had done nothing wrong, and Steve's feelings were his own private hell. He should try to keep them that way.

 

Steve sighed. The air hurt in his lungs. Why did Tony have to come here to torture him like this? There's your _why_ in return.

 

Absently, Steve noticed Sharon had slipped off. He saw the back of her head bowing forward, whispering something in Natasha's ear, but he couldn't think about that now. He'll apologize later if he'd been rude...

 

Tony filled all his thoughts, like a red hot haze with a strange undercurrent of steady affection. Tony's warmth, his closeness, his lips, his face, more animated now than when he was talking to anyone else... Or was it Steve deceiving himself? He was, he had to be...

 

"Did you want something  in particular?" he heard himself say, and his own voice was cold, and he was looking at something to the right of Tony's face, because if he looked into his eyes for a moment longer, he'd go in and kiss him, and everything be damned. And he mustn't, he _mustn't..._

There was Tony with that look again, naked just for a second, taken aback. If you didn't know his face so well, you'd have missed it. Steve thought almost anyone but himself would have missed it. He almost melted, there and then, almost took Tony's hand in his own, almost said _I'm sorry, I'm sorry for being a jerk, I'm just going crazy, ask Bucky, ask Sam, ask anyone..._ But there was the treacherous part of him that wondered _would Peter Quill have noticed that change of expression too? Well, would he?_

 

"Well, I wanted to talk to you, actually," Tony said, mildly affronted.

 

 _Go talk to Quill instead_ , he wanted to snap; swiveling from extreme to extreme, he had no idea how to handle this. What escaped his lips was a cold, almost petulant: "Well, I'm busy." It was almost like a test: if Tony _cared_ , he'd _feel_ this, he'd be hurt, and if he was just being friendly, he'd... he'd...

 

Like in slow motion, he watched Tony's face close up, become the genial mask again, the grin stretching his face. And he turned on his heel, saying something on the lines with "Oh, over there I see some people I actually looked forward to seeing."

 

***

 

He knew he managed to hurt Tony. A moment of satisfaction was wild, rampant, but then a cold, black, poisonous regret settled in and nested in his heart like a snake. He had not only been rude to his friend, but he had done everything he could to hurt the person he cared about the most. _What the fuck_ , he thought to himself, but vaguely. Except for the blackness, he felt completely empty.

 

He stood like that for a time. There were some people addressing him, but he responded automatically. In all probability everyone could see he wasn't exactly there, but he didn't care about _them._.

 

The world around him came back with an explosion of color and sound, intrusive and garish and unbearable, but somehow he got his senses back, he got his focus back. _I have to fix this_ , he thought, as he hurried in the direction in which Tony had left. And it made no sense. It seemed to him all he did tonight was go after Tony, time and again, wanting to apologize, and then fucking up, over and over.

 

But this, he thought, this is easy. All he needed to do was find Tony and tell him the truth. _I'm in love with you. I know you don't feel the same way. I saw you with Peter, and I was being crazy, and I'm sorry. I'm still your friend. I want to be._

 

***

 

Tony's guts were ice. After a time, you stopped feeling the cold. That was how it went with hypothermia.

 

He thought it must be some kind of a natural anesthetic for the mind. He should look into it, it'd be interesting, on a purely scientific level. When the hurt was too much, when _everything_ was too much, burning on the inside, threatening to swallow him whole – he just stopped feeling things. The scalpel was so sharp, you wouldn't even register it go in.

 

It was General Hirata he was talking to now, barely aware of the words washing over him and around him and through him. He wasn't looking back, to see where Steve was in the crowd. (Steve could go fuck himself, really.)

 

Every salve of polite laughter around him was like scoring a point, a dart straight into the center. Surround yourself with people. People were like a fortress. Surround yourself and charm and dazzle and _prove_ you don't care, and on the inside forget forget _forget._ Erase all the feelings. Be numb like an iceberg (no, not an iceberg, don't go there, find a different comparison). Hard like a diamond, reflecting the heat, reflecting the light, not letting anything, _anything_ in, not any more, not with anyone, it was enough, _enough._

 

_Steve didn't want him. Didn't want even to talk to him for five minutes. Tony'd  read everything wrong, as per usual. Imagine all those texts Steve got from Tony, how he rolled his eyes and... Or was it pity he felt, mixed with exasperation? Tony kept pushing, never knew how to stop, how to hold back. But he was going to learn to. Oh, how he was going to learn!_

A gentle tap on the shoulder, a hand burning like a million suns. How did he know whom it belonged to? It must have been some unsquished remnant of insane hope inside him; he squished it deliberately, then.

 

Tony turned. Raised a sharp eyebrow. (Sharp like a scalpel, cold like glass.)

 

"Tony, could I talk to you?" Steve seemed subdued, very collected, his voice soft. Tony could almost believe the humiliation from ten minutes ago never even happened. But it did, it _did._

 

It seared inside Tony. Sometimes fire burns so hotly it tricks your nerves into believing it's ice-cold. That's right before the skin starts to melt.

 

"Oh, _Rogers_ ," he said sweetly, creamily. "You know my door is always open." The mildly perplexed frown on Steve's face. Ground, well prepared. Ready to slide the blade in. "Friday, check if I have an opening in the next, oh, two weeks or so." He tapped his watch, unnecessarily.

 

"I'm afraid not, boss." Friday rose to the occasion, bless her. "Do you want me to cancel our book club meeting, maybe?"

 

"No, no. That's important. No other slots?"

 

"I could tell captain Rogers to call in July, try to set something up for September."

 

Another salve of polite laughter around them; Tony barely registered it. Everyone knew Iron Man and Captain America were such good friends, right, _right_? It must be some in-joke, some private teasing. To his well tuned ears, there were a few strands of something forced in the merriment, and he knew how to read that too: is the laughter at our expense? Are the superheroes mocking us? Is this funny or rude? (If the audience pretended it was funny, they didn't have to deal with rude.)

 

Judging by Steve's expression, he didn't find it funny in the least. By the way his eyes darted to Tony's face, and then behind him, at the people standing around, he was very much aware they weren't alone. And probably felt very humiliated. And: _good_. And: "Tony, please..." Imploring through clenched teeth, glaring into Tony's eyes.

 

Breezily, charmingly careless, Tony knew the drill: "My people will call your people, all right?"

 

Steve's hand on his arm. Too insistent, too tight for a social occasion. Someone might look at Steve's face, then see how white his knuckles were, digging into Tony's sleeve; someone could connect the dots. (His knuckles, white not because he held on so fast, but because it took everything he had _not to._ )

 

"Tony, I need to..." More intensity, more imploring. Voice quiet but sizzling with emotion. _Suppressed much, captain?_

 

"Oh, you _need_ to, do you...?" Tony began, and he heard his own voice, and it was too low, too angry. His control was slipping. Steve was never as beautiful as in that moment, and Tony wanted to kiss him in the roughest possible manner, to have him down on his knees, to make him _hurt_ , like Tony hurt, and then to pull him up and kiss him again. And the cocktail of emotions that was surging through his veins was a fiery mixture of fury and hurt pride and desire, scorching its way through him. What was his hand doing, covering Steve's on his arm, digging his fingers into Steve's knuckles. Trying to pry it off? To hold it there forever? He had no idea. And he and Steve were standing too close to each other, somehow, and everyone, _everyone_ must have seen the deep, destructive heat roiling in the air between them. His own fury interlaced with passion. Steve's bewildered anger and hurt ( _Good!_ ). Tony felt the warmth in his groin, felt himself start to get hard, from the closeness, from the anger. (The righteous, avenging cock, getting ready for the battle, he thought inconsequentially, and wanted to laugh but didn't).

 

He had to get out of here. He had to... "We need to talk. Like, now," he muttered at Steve, almost a whisper. Because this was insane. The music was getting louder, and the dancers were whirling away, not so far from them now, and maybe no one was paying attention to him and Steve any more, locked as they were in their silent battle, as per usual. Still, it seemed they were going to end up yelling or snarling at each other (probably a healthy combo of both) – even though it had been the last thing Tony wanted, merely half an hour ago – so at least they should do it away from all these people.

 

What are you going to tell him, he asked himself, because he knew he wasn't going to tell the truth, knew he wasn't going to disclose his emotions; how could he? It was unimaginable. But there was one thing he very much wanted to say, to ask, about everything that happened between them: What do you want from me? What _the fuck_ do you want from me, in all this?

 

Steve just nodded curtly, an acknowledgment a conversation was definitely in order; that was enough for Tony. With a goal in mind, it was suddenly easier. He forced a grin, forced a surprised laugh, forced a light, silly voice. "Hey!" Friendly affront, that was the trick. He should have been an actor, really. "No tickling, Steve! Come on, buddy, I need to show you something."

 

Steve's bewildered look, and his belated, watery grin probably spoiled the effect, but this last piece of acting was all the consideration Tony was going to give to social niceties.  Everyone could go straight to hell, not stopping to ask for directions. (He could give those directions so well, though. He could probably draw them a detailed map.)

 

They were dragging each other away; Tony couldn't rightly tell who was dragging whom. For anyone who didn't look too closely, they probably looked like two friends, walking arm in arm. Quite hurriedly, in a straight line, bumping against the dancers, not stopping to apologize – towards one of the ballroom exits. Out. _Out._ See, there was something they could agree on.

 

"Where...?" Steve muttered at him.

 

"...find somewhere private to talk..." Tony replied out of the corner of  his lips, even though no one was paying attention to them right now.

 

"What, in a palace, during a gala?"

 

"Just _walk_ , Rogers."

 

***

 

"Fry, can we bypass the lock?"

 

"Sure thing, boss."

 

"I don't think we should be doing that. Probably." This from Steve, without much conviction. Tony still used it as an excuse to round up on him, step closer, get into his face. _Holy hell, I'm pathetic_. Anything, just to get close to Steve.

 

"Wanna have this discussion here, then, in the hallway?" he said, and it came out as a growl. And oh god, it took all he had not to do anything, not to push Steve against the wall, no to go in and bite that lower lip of his. Anger was making him alive.

 

And Steve's eyes, blazing with affront, hot on his own like a furnace. Staring, unrelentingly, at Tony's face, boring into him. The man was breathing hard. (Tony could make him breath way harder than that, oh yes he could.) Steve's lips were slightly parted, and he himself was standing very still. _Not_ backing away one inch. Almost as if saying _yes, right here, let's._ And suddenly Tony wasn't entirely sure if Steve meant the fight or something else, something Tony was craving in his bones. But that was impossible, wasn't it? Tony's imagination was getting the better of him.

 

Steve's hand was still clutching Tony's arm, and if Tony didn't have a bruise from it tomorrow, he'd be damned. His own fingers clenched into a fist, _not_ grabbing Steve's upper arm, _not_ pushing him back. Oh _god_ , he had to stop, this had to stop.

 

Friday saved the day, as per usual. "All done, boss." And with a click, the door opened magically. Once inside, Tony had to calm down, try to do something right for once, try to talk his way through this.

 

It was dark in there, as – oh _god_ , Steve half pushed half dragged him in. All his resolutions amounted to nothing, if Steve was going to be like this. (This angry and determined and insanely hot.)

 

Apparently, this was some kind of a coat room, probably for the guests, since it was on the ballroom floor. Silent racks of overcoats and raincoats and jackets, almost identical in the gloom, like rows upon rows of mute auditors.

 

Steve pulled on his arm, none too gently, and practically turned Tony around. Tony's blood surged. He stepped in, closing the distance even more, brazen, aggressive. From so close up, he could see Steve's eyes despite the darkness, blue and burning and _pissed_. And the way he bit his lower lip, holy hell. Tony knew he was supposed to say something, step back and try to _talk_ , but he felt a growl rise deep in his throat instead; suppressed it. Glaring was not _enough_. If he could have conveyed all he felt through that glare, his eyes might have melted.

 

Steve was the first to break the silence. "What do you _want_ from me, Tony?" His voice was still low, even though the door was thick and locked. The timbre seemed to connect directly to Tony's cock just like Steve's gaze seemed to tug directly at Tony's heart. He swallowed thickly. And under Steve's burning eyes, the unlikely puzzle pieces started sliding together, to form a picture. The way Steve stared at him right now, at his lips, the way he wouldn't stop touching Tony; Tony had seen it all before, with other people. It spoke of one thing: desire.

 

And, distantly, Tony knew he was supposed to question this, be rational, try not to ruin things with Steve. Still, _were_ there any things between them left to be ruined, or was it just Tony, clinging to the past? Because, if  it had all gone to hell anyway, maybe he could have this at least– a wild, crazy one time thing. Steve surely didn't want anything more. That had become clear over the past months, culminating with the events earlier that evening. The cold irritation in Steve's eyes and voice when he'd said _I'm busy_ still burned in Tony's chest.

 

 _What the fuck do you want from me, Steve?_ Tony's stomach clenched. Nothing, of course – or not the same thing Tony wanted from _him_ , in any case. Steve was excited now, sure. Tony knew how unresolved tensions sometimes affected people. Steve and Tony were champions on that field; they would win any competition, any time. So, Steve got aggravated with him – big surprise there, eh? – and got jumped by a sudden case of anger turning into lust. _It happens._ _Especially to temperamental, repressed assholes_ , Tony thought. Well, fine, I can do it that way too, he decided acidly.

 

And then a more melancholy, more honest thought fought for elbow room in his mind: They could do it now, and then he'd have had _Steve_ , if just the once. He'd know what Steve felt like under his hands, warm skin against skin, Steve's lips pressed against his... _Let's not go there_ , he thought, and figured he should probably stop thinking altogether. That was the safest option.

 

"What do you want from _me_?" he echoed Steve's words from before, and that was all he said. He knew his mind was clouded. Steve's grip on his arm was like hot iron, and all Tony let himself think of right then was giving back with interest, measure for measure, burn for burn. Get Steve against the wall and teach him all about gripping and grabbing.

 

"I want..." Steve began hoarsely, trailing off mid-sentence as if he couldn't be bothered to finish it, as if there was no point. And then his _other_ hand, the one that wasn't clutching Tony's arm, somehow ended up at the small of Tony's back, and _pulled_ , and _held_ , firm and vice-like. Tony's body smashed into Steve's, and that was it, that was the breaking point. Tearing his arm from Steve's grip, Tony put both his hands on Steve's shoulders, and pushed with all he had.

 

***

 

Bewildered, Steve stepped back, quickly letting go, his palms flying up in a placating gesture. He felt his face go cold and an icicle of horror stabbed at his chest. It was all distant, and he heard the echo of his own words to Sam earlier: _I miscalculated._ Again. _Again._

"I'm sorry," he managed, lamely, wandering how to go on, how to make an apology that would _mean_ something. But before he could say anything more, Tony slammed him against the wall, and then his lips were on Steve's, hot, taking, not at all gentle. The man appeared so _angry_ it seemed he could have strangled Steve, but instead he pushed his tongue into Steve's mouth, and ground his hips into Steve's, insolent, uncaring, _hard._ A giddy excitement danced in Steve's belly. He'd been angry himself just moments before, affronted at Tony's excessive reaction in the ballroom, but his outrage was hopelessly entangled with arousal, like it had been for years. And now, as he felt Tony's hands all over him, the push of Tony's body against him, the whole emotional mess surged up, boiled over, turning into a wild, dark delight that trumped everything else. Because Tony wanted him, Tony _wanted him_ , after all these years, and this was far from all Steve wished for, from him, but it was also more than he could have hoped for.

 

His cheeks burning, for a moment he was happy to just stand there, pressed against the wall, and bask in being touched and kissed so desperately, in his breath being stolen away. _Tony wanted him._ It was almost surreal.

 

Steve struggled to think. But as he felt Tony's erection against his own, a new tide of sharp wanting washed over him. That was that, all the inhibitions fell away, for him.

 

***

 

Their lips were smashed together, their teeth clicked uncomfortably, but Tony didn't give a fuck. He just glared straight at Steve from up close, channeling all his frustration and anger and disappointed desire into the kiss, the look, the grinding of his cock against Steve's.

 

But – although Steve _was_ kissing back – that was unmistakable – Tony noticed that he wasn't holding onto him, he was just standing there, not exactly passive but still, as if undecided somehow. And that... Well, that just wasn't Tony's style. Suddenly, there was a  coldness in his gut, not of the numb kind, but heavy and very much _there._ Maybe this wasn't fair, maybe Steve _was_ turned on, but what if he didn't really _want_ this? He didn't. It was so clear all of a sudden, and there was something like a guillotine cutting straight through Tony's midriff.

 

He stepped back. Took one hard breath, then another. It was too dark, and he couldn't see Steve's face very well, and he... Well, apology was beyond him. All the _normal words_ were beyond him. He shook his head at Steve.

 

"What?" Steve managed breathlessly, still tucked against the wall, where he let Tony push him.

 

Tony shook his head some more, because that was all he was capable of, and he wondered, incoherently, if Steve could see it at all, with the super-serum and everything.

 

" _What?_ ", Steve repeated, more insistent now. He was still breathing hard, still not moving an inch.

 

"I would fuck you right here, right now," Tony said, his voice grating at his throat "But I know you don't want that. Not for real. And I'm sorry about this, Rogers. Really. I have a tendency to go too far. You know that."

 

Before he could figure out what was happening, Steve was upon him, both hands on Tony's back, pulling him close, undeniably there, undeniably burning, his palms drawing wild, irregular paths into the map of Tony's back. His mouth was pushy, biting, bruising on Tony's. "You've no idea what I want or don't want," Steve whispered hoarsely.

 

And then, frantically, Tony was untucking Steve's shirt from his pants, burning, dying to feel skin under his fingers, to dig them into Steve's ribs, to drive his nails into Steve's back and leave marks. He couldn't stop his hands from moving, touching everywhere, the shoulder blades, then down, down, along the ribs and up again, pulling at Steve, pressing himself against him even though there was nowhere left to press. And Steve's skin was smooth and searing hot, and it was everything Tony had ever dreamed of.

 

***

 

Steve knew Tony vented frustration through sex; he'd told Steve that years ago, when they'd touched upon it in a conversation. Steve should accept this for what it was, he knew that.

 

_"How's that ever a good idea?" Steve had asked, back then (while they still actually talked)._

_Tony had snorted. "You break gym equipment, I go have a quickie. At least, mine is less destructive. Oh, go ahead and judge, I don't care."_

_"That's not really what I meant. I just... Doesn't it complicate things?" Because, to Steve it had seemed like an ostensibly  good idea that would turn sour the minute it was over and you had to actually deal with the person._

_Tony had shrugged. "Yeah, sometimes. But, basically, if it's two consenting adults who are on the same page and know exactly what they are doing, where's the harm in helping each other out?"_

Steve didn't see the harm, but he did think it was a pretty rare occurrence that the two adults in question actually were on the same page and actually knew what they were doing. He didn't say that.

 

He was the one unable to think about the consequence now. A feverish thrill was coursing through him, a feeling of wild danger, almost like the one before a battle. Up until recently, everything about this night had been stuffy and constrained, twined together with his own feelings of inadequacy. And now, while everyone in the world outside of this coatroom still danced and sipped wine and twirled to one waltz after another, he was suddenly free, liberated, doing something like _this_ , doing it with _Tony_ , after years and years of suppressed longing. He wanted to devour him. He wanted to laugh.

 

Steve's hands traced the waistline of Tony's pants, pressing into his skin, at the same time wanting to prolong this and to feel everything _right now_ , without delay, to take and be given _everything._ He could see Tony's erection twitch in his pants, and the improbable sensuality of the sight made Steve stop for a second. Tony didn't even seem angry any longer, just urgent and needy and burning. Steve loved him so much in that moment that he thought it was absolutely impossible to ever love more than that, and then, instantly he loved him even more. And for a second he couldn't help but wonder: How's this even possible? And, if there was so much passion between them, if Tony wanted him this much, couldn't they do it again? Occasionally? At least when they are angry at each other, he thought wryly. And even though he'd half-promised himself not to hope for anything more, he hoped.

 

At Tony's grunt of protest at the delay, Steve started fumbling with the button. Impatiently, Tony pushed Steve's fingers away, unzipped himself, then started on Steve's belt, which was when the white haze behind Steve's eyes swallowed all thought.

 

They had both lost their jackets, somehow. Tony bit his neck. For a moment, Steve's tender skin stayed trapped between Tony's upper teeth and his lower lip, and that patch of skin and those teeth were the only thing that still existed in Steve's world.  Making a happy, muffled sound at Steve's shiver, Tony started trailing small bites towards the shoulder, leaving a line of fire in his wake.

 

"Tony, god..." Steve panted, grabbing his ass, pulling him close again, grinding against him. The only thing separating them now was the thin fabric of their boxers, and Steve hated that fabric with a passion.

 

***

 

Impatiently, Tony slipped a hand down Steve's boxers, and grabbed hold of him. Steve produced something between a gasp and a whimper; a part of Tony that wasn't completely drowned in sensations though, half coherently: _Nice. This is exactly where I want you._ He ran his calloused hand up the length of Steve's cock, then back again, not too gentle at all. Steve threw his head back and moaned, beautiful, perfect as a Bernini statue even if his face was only barely visible in the dark. An unwelcome tendril of sadness in Tony's heart twitched. _We could have done this differently_. With less urgency and more... intimacy, he supposed. But, he reminded himself, it wasn't as if Steve exactly went around lusting after him every day. Tony forced himself to stop for a sec, tear his gaze away. "You're sure about this, right?" he asked, a bit sobered up. Then: "Steve?"

 

"I.." Steve said, and: "I _want..._ " His voice hitched so sweetly Tony couldn't _not_ kiss him again. And Steve seemed to come back to his senses for a moment. He used the chance to pull Tony's boxers down, and grab a very determined handful of him and return the favor, turning the tables. Tony's eyes flew closed and his knees went week, and Steve's hand on his cock felt like searing heaven.

 

"I _want you_ ," he heard Steve say, insistent, pressing.

 

"Okay, then," Tony breathed against his neck. "What do you want to do?"

 

"Weren't you going to fuck me?"

 

"Okay," Tony whispered, and he wanted to fill his mouth with Steve, fill his _life_ with Steve, but he knew, he knew he couldn't have that. Still, if this was the only thing he was going to get, this one quick, furtive fuck in a coat room, fine. He could live with that. (He couldn't.) He was going to make the best of this. (He was going to fuck everything up.) If this was all he was going to get, he managed to think, half-coherently, he wasn't going to miss this chance, because he would regret it till the end of his life.

 

He pulled away. Steve held onto him for a moment longer, protesting with a quiet wordless moan, then let go. "What are you doing?" he asked as Tony started frantically searching the pockets of the coats on one rack, fumbling in the darkness.

 

"I assume you haven't got a packet of lube on you either?" Tony said. "Well, statistically speaking, someone has too have one."

 

He was sure Steve was going to protest, say something reproachful, but the man just laughed incredulously, breathily. "How are you so...?" he began, sounding almost giggly, and didn't finish; instead, he started searching the coat pockets from the opposite end.

 

A stab in Tony's gut, that had everything to do with how he was _not_ going to have this after tonight – this moment of easy camaraderie amidst wanna-be angry sex – and how _good_ it could be, if only Steve felt the same... But he wouldn't let his mind go down that lane, not now. Just a few minutes later, a packet of lube in hand, they were kissing again, and then Tony prodded Steve to turn around. Steve put both hands against the wall and bent forward.  The outline of his back, his ass, the back of his head – it made Tony want to scream with wanting, with need. He wanted to _have_ him, to touch him and claim him and make him _his_ , again and again, but instead he took a deep breath. He came closer, rubbing his cock against Steve's ass cheek for a moment, gasping. Then he bent forward, pressing his body against Steve's, stomach against back, and bit him on the shoulder, hard, unrestrained, until Steve hissed.

 

Steve had a generous hole, and two fingers slid in pretty easily, lubing the way. Steve caught his breath, stiffened, relaxed. The small, unwilling jerk of his back twisted Tony's heart, and Tony whispered _sorry_ , probably more than once, and _you okay?_ as he grabbed hold of Steve's dripping cock with his other hand. Steve fucked into his hand, shuddered, gasped.

 

"You okay?", Tony whispered again, sliding his fingers in and out, opening him up, not ungentle but hurried. He couldn't help but rub his cock against Steve's ass, craving contact, craving _something._

 

"I'm going to..." Steve drew in a sharp breath, stilled himself, regained control. "Just _get on with it_!" he said through gritted teeth, and Tony could see he was close.

 

He pushed in, too frantic to really appreciate it and more rushed than he liked. He gripped Steve's hips for purchase, then switched his grip, bent forward, took Steve's cock in his hand again. Steve moaned, throatily, still restrained. Tony pumped his hand back and forth, rapidly, roughly, as he pushed in, in, once, twice, just a few times. The strokes were short, uneven, not artful, not _anything._ Just urgency and pressing need. As he heard Steve groan again, this time lower, hoarser, he felt his hand fill with wetness, and he let himself go too; the waves of bittersweet release passed too soon. He leaned his cheek against Steve's back as he came and for a moment he sobbed without tears. It was, he figured a bit later, probably just relief.

 

 ***

 

Doubt was only natural. Wild flights of imagination too. Because, as he stood there, bent forward, pressed against Steve's back and unwilling to let go, Tony wondered if maybe he was wrong, if maybe Steve actually cared, if maybe this wasn't a crazy fluke of frustration and desire. He actually – no, stop – but he couldn't _not_ think it: he _knew_ that Steve cared, in a way. He remembered Steve tearing up when they talked more than a year ago now, he remembered that night on the roof in Berlin, and he remembered the conversation too, more clearly than he cared to admit. The thing was, Steve didn't care like _Tony_ did, surely not, not with the same velocity or intensity, not in the same _way_. He'd wanted to be friends at best, Tony told himself, that was that. (Well, now that's fucked too, most probably.)

 

Patiently, as if beating himself over the head with a tiny hammer, Tony made himself remember the painful awkwardness when they met earlier tonight, remember the way Steve avoided him, the way he abruptly started pretending he was talking to Sharon when he spotted Tony coming over. The way he – cold, irritated, exasperated – snapped at Tony when Tony refused to take a hint like any normal person would. The way it was nearly always Tony who initiated contact ( _desperate, much?_ ), who started conversations – or, well, what passed for conversations between the two of them these days. And he _knew_ he should distance himself now, close his heart, or else this was going to destroy him completely.

 

But... _just a second longer_ , he thought, weak, incapable to move. He listened to Steve's heavy breathing, and felt the warmth of his back against his stomach and his chest and his cheek, so intimately pressed to that comfy spot between Steve's shoulder blades.

 

And there was a pang of regret again, at all the hurry, all the frantic grabbing and biting and digging nails into skin. He straightened, pulled out. Wondered why he didn't think to steal some tissues while he was about stealing lube. Pack it in, he told himself. Pack it in, and cut your heart out, and just walk away. Else, you fall apart. But he couldn't resist the one last look. Steve still hadn't moved, he just stood there, hands against the wall, breathing and dripping. The curve of his back was so near and somehow sad. And – just one last touch then, Tony thought, as he let his hand caress him softly, all the way up the spine, lingering, stroking with his thumb, softly, slowly. And he thought _it shouldn't have been like this_ , but those were thoughts for another universe, he knew that. _It should have been slow and teasing, with champagne and silky sheets and foreplay_. He should have made Steve gasp his name even before he _began_ for real.

 

And now, afterwards – he went on, tormenting himself –  he would cover Steve's shoulders with tiny, soft kisses, like snowflakes, and maybe give him a back rub, and let his hands roam freely, now that the initial urgency has been sated. And – god, he had to stop this, he had to. _All right, just one kiss, for good bye,_ he thought, as he bent lower and softly touched his lips to Steve's right shoulder blade, lingering for too long. This was hard. It was so hard  he thought he'd just die on the spot, and what walked out would be an empty shell.

 

He steeled his heart. He pulled back. He started pulling his pants up from around his knees. One thing at a time. Thankfully it was dark. The dark made it possible. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the button and he was aware of Steve straightening, turning around.

 

Then, a soft, questioning touch, a knuckle against Tony's cheek, light as a feather. _Don't fall into his arms_ , Tony thought, uselessly, as he leaned into the touch – jus a little, just for a second, a blessed moment of skin against skin. And then Steve was pulling him in, holding him, and Tony thought: _Okay, so maybe he's a cuddler, some people like to cuddle afterwards._ After all, they were friends, weren't they? There was no reason not to share a gentle moment after sex, right? Some people were like that. Tony never was, unless he was in love. But now, all he wanted was to sink into the warm darkness of Steve's touch, let himself be held, lean his head against Steve's shoulder. He turned his face up, questing for a kiss, and while the rational part of him whispered urgently: _go, you need to go, this is killing you, you're killing yourself with this_ , the rest of him figured it was going to be okay, just for a second longer, just a minute, just to say goodbye.

 

***

 

Tony vented frustration through sex, that was his way; Steve kept coming back to that thought over and over again.

 

Was that what this was? He did seem extremely pissed at Steve earlier. Now he was sweet and pliant, all gentle touches and soft kisses. The darkness wasn't a problem for Steve with his dark vision. He studied Tony's half-lowered eyelids from up close, and he wanted to kiss them, one and then the other – and maybe he should, now that he had his chance. So yes, let's do that, he thought, let's do everything I've wanted to do. Still, he chickened out halfway through and just rested his lips against Tony's cheekbone.

 

Touching and exchanging shy caresses all the while, they'd picked up their things, scattered around, and dressed. Steve had found Tony's jacket, tossed on the floor. He had shook it out and held it out to Tony as if they'd done this a million times. And Tony had smiled to himself, so sweetly and sadly, like, Steve suspected, he never would have if he didn't feel so safe, enveloped in the hiding darkness.

 

Tony vented frustration through sex, but now there seemed to be no frustration left, just the two of them, both seemingly reluctant to let go of each other. Steve remembered Tony's words again. On the same page? No, they weren't. And he wondered if he should be feeling bad about this – not the sex, but the aftermath. Still, Tony seemed to be snuggling pretty enthusiastically, leaning into Steve, both his arms around Steve. And Steve had his hands under Tony's shirt again – after they'd neatly tucked it in, oh well – moving them slowly, touching, feeling. The first time around, it was about both fulfilling and conveying a _need_ , something wild and urgent and burning. Now he wanted to memorize the way Tony felt under his palms, to memorize the feeling of his lips under his own, to commit every little detail to memory. If this was all he was going to have, then yes, thanks, he was going to make it last as long as he could. His heart hurt, perhaps, but then again, his heart _always_ hurt, and Steve didn't care. Let it hurt.

 

He tried not to overthink it. Now that the frustration seemed spent – Tony was probably just enjoying the touch, the act of exchanging something with someone. And why not, Steve thought. Two consenting adults, right? What did it matter that his own heart was breaking in his chest? Tony was a creature of pure energy; everything was so close to the surface, with him, the enthusiasm and the anger, always so acute, always burning. It might have been what Steve had fallen for in the first place. The crazy _life_ inside him. And the sex had been exactly like that too, thrilling and intense and risky, like Steve had always imagined it would be with Tony.

 

So. What if Tony would be willing to do this again? Look at him, now, all molten and sleepy in Steve's arms. So quiet too. Not moving too much, just content to lean against Steve, who, in turn, was leaning against the wall. They weren't kissing now, but their faces were close, their lips touching just barely, and they stood and breathed each other's air.

 

So – maybe? Casually? Tony could do it, right, he did it with other people? He'd said so, back when. And Steve had seen him on the balcony, and there was something going on there for sure, but it couldn't be serious or Tony wouldn't be here, with him now. (Tony'd never do that.) But if he could have some kind of on-and-off relationship (whatever) with Peter Quill, then why not with Steve? Steve tried to suppress an unwanted stab of jealousy, with little success.

 

So, the real question was could Steve do it? Could he ever be casual with Tony? He knew the answer already, had known it all the while, in all probability. He’d just let the hope mislead him. No, he couldn't do it, because he didn't know how to do things halfway, because he could go all in or not go in at all, because he had no idea how to be 'casual'. The idea of having Tony _and not having him_ , the idea of Tony... fooling around, he supposed... with other people... That made his stomach curl into a fist and there was this tightness in his chest he couldn't stand. What was he supposed to do, how did people do this? Was he just old fashioned? No, he wasn't, he was simply wired that way, that was all.

 

As if he sensed the shift in Steve's mood, Tony pulled back a bit, and _loss, loss!_ Steve wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to have this end so abruptly. (He knew it would, he knew he should have been prepared, but he wasn't. Could he ever be?)

 

There was a trickle of chilliness in Tony's voice (someone who didn't know him, might not have noticed). He sounded deceptively offhanded. "You having regrets, big guy?"

 

"No," Steve said, "I just..." And _that_ he regretted; he should have stuck with _no_. He wanted to step up to Tony, take him back in his arms and kiss him – Jesus Christ, just one more time, just one solid, real kiss, for goodbye. The moment seemed to have passed, however. Now, somehow, although his hands were still on Tony's hips, the man seemed a hundred miles away.

 

"Just what?" The underlying sharpness seeped into Tony's voice. Steve wanted to mellow it down somehow. Still, this moment had been stolen, unreal, he knew that. What he wanted... well, the two of them could have that in his head only. He _knew_ that.

 

But _try_ , he thought, because what else was there to life, but a desperate series of trying, always trying, getting tired, and then trying again, because, really, you didn't have anything else. Forward.

 

He stepped forward, and Tony didn't step back, didn't pull away. Steve reached up, shy and gentle, touching Tony's hips again, his back. Tony _didn't step back_. Steve felt Tony's hands on him then, sliding up his arms then aback down, an unmistakable caress. There _was_ something between them, there _must be._ This was not how people who didn't care about each other behaved. If only this gentleness, this companionship could be enough for Steve. _What if it progressed, though, developed? What if we started off casual and, with time, he found he could love me? It happens all the time, to people. Doesn't it? Wouldn't it be worth the wait? I should talk to him. Say something._ Hope was relentless, the bastard. Just like Steve, it never knew how to stop.

 

Of course, of all the stupid ways to open that discussion, his mouth chose to start at the ass end of things. What he meant to say was something in the vein of: You know that on-and-off thing I think you have with Peter Quill – well, would you ever be willing to try something like that with _me_? With me too? Or maybe just me? See where it goes? Instead, his throat suddenly went dry, and what came out was: "I saw you with Peter..." He heard how that sounded, stopped.

 

Tony's face scrunched up for a second, perplexed. "Parker?" he said. "What about him?"

 

Then Tony got it. It was lovely, really, how unguarded his expression was when he figured Steve couldn't see him. "You mean Peter Quill," he said slowly. And then _more_ dawning, _more_ realization _._ He gave Steve a piercing look, a sharp frown. "You saw us. On the balcony." Matter-of-factly. But not. There was something else in his voice too.

 

"I _did_." Steve knew his voice had gone was all weird and stupid, and he hated the stab of jealousy he felt; he wanted that to have been _him_ , out there with Tony, smiling, dancing. _Don't ruin this_ , he told himself, uselessly.

 

"Steve, that wasn't..." Tony began, for all the world as if he was defending himself. Then he got a grip, stopped. Frowned for a moment, as if he was considering something nebulous. And then, abruptly, a new understanding flooded his face. "You complete _assclown_ ," he blurted incredulously. "It's not _Peter Quill_ I'm in love with!"

 

A moment of pure, undistilled silence stretched. And then a horrified look slowly overtook Tony's face, and before Steve could digest what had been said, Tony wriggled away from him and ran out, shirt untucked, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

 

The gathering was beginning to look sad. It was weird, Steve thought, inconsequentially, as he stepped into the ballroom. The crowd had made him feel uneasy and overwhelmed earlier; the throng of people, the multitude of sounds; with his super-hearing, he could hear feet scuffle and breaths whoosh, dozens of olives splashing around in the martinis, and a sea of indistinguishable words seeping and clanking together until they swallowed him whole, like quicksand. He _hated_ crowds. And now that the people were dissipating, it all looked somehow sad and unimportant and tiny. Many had left already, and only the drunkest and the bravest were still dancing to the very professional and highly unenthusiastic music being played by the tired musicians. Steve had no idea how long he and Tony had stayed away, but evidently they'd been pretty long.

 

It felt a bit like the carnival ground on the morning after.

 

But there, on the other side of the ballroom, there was a splash of vivid color and joy and pain. Surrounded with their friends, his fortress walls, Tony was laughing loudly, his face animated. He was telling a story; all the gazes were plastered on him. Somehow, he looked more unapproachable than ever.

 

Did he really say what Steve thought he did? Because there, in the darkness of the coatroom, with the residue of the caresses still burning on Steve's skin, it had looked more and more like he had, like that was exactly what Tony meant. And Steve had sunk to the floor and hugged his knees and remembered Tony's careful touches as well as his demanding mouth, and how, during sex, he had kept whispering to Steve: _Are you sure about this? Are you okay? Is this all right? Are you having fun?_

 

The ballroom seemed unbridgeable, and all that happened earlier felt like a distant dream.

 

"So, Thor talked my ear off tonight."

 

Steve turned to see who was speaking to him and almost jumped when he spotted Peter Quill, standing there, looking all friendly and _normal_. Steve knew Peter, they'd fought together. Steve had always _liked_ Peter, really. It had been so difficult to remember that, tonight. Now he gave it his best effort.

 

"Thor can be pretty... congenial, yes," he said, and no use, he still sounded like a schoolteacher. He closed his eyes for a second and sighed.

 

"He wouldn't shut up about what he called... Kyrumption, I think? Two heroes, meeting on the field of battle, coming together..."

 

"Yes, yes," Steve cut him off, blushing. "He mentioned something. I think it's probably an Asgardian term."

 

"So," Peter said. "How come you aren't over there?" He nodded his head toward the other end of the ballroom (still miles away). "Kyrumpting."

 

Steve felt his teeth click. _Easy_ , he ordered himself and turned to look Peter in the face. The man was wearing this open, bright-eyed expression that made it impossible for _anyone_ to dislike him, Steve thought.

 

"Because, honestly, he's crazy about you," Peter continued. "You know that, right?'

 

And hearing that from Peter Quill, whom he'd spent half the night resenting – it changed something. Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. In the end, all he could think to say was: "You think?"

 

"Yes. I think. Because, see, otherwise I'd have to think he refused me because of _me_ , and I'd rather not think that, so I decided to think this instead."

 

Steve breathed slowly. What seemed like a million different replies buzzed and flocked in Steve's mind. The musicians had finished their final waltz. The last of the guests were leaving now or seemed about to leave. Both groups of the Avengers, as well as Wolverine (no one could drink like Wolverine, especially if someone else was paying for it), were among the last ones present, as was generally their manner. The time seemed to be speeding around them, and all he could do was watch Tony, still in a good mood, lean over to Rhodey, saying something, grinning... He wasn't looking at Steve at all, _never at Steve._

_He's crazy about you,_ he heard in his head.

 

 _He refused me,_ he heard in his head.

 

 _It's not Peter Quill I'm in love with_ , he heard in his head.

 

Now someone had started playing music from the speakers, not-too-subtle a hint to the guests that they had drunk all there was to drink and eaten all there was to eat and danced their way through the ballroom floor, and now they were overstaying their welcome, thank you very much.

 

Time was slipping away, and Steve knew he had to do something, but he was frozen in place. So many years had been leading up to this point. For so many years he'd been trying to turn himself to stone, and now he was supposed to turn himself back, all at once, to feel what he had been trying not to feel, to hope when he had been doing his best to extinguish all hope.

 

He was barely aware he was turning to Quill, looking at him imploringly. " _So, what do I do?_ " Steve asked.

 

"Easy peasy," Peter said lightly and patted his arm. "Just ask him to dance."

 

***

 

Tony ran out of the damned coat room, tucking his shirt in, desperately straightening his suit as he walked. Relief was mixing with disappointment that Steve hadn't ran after him. He allowed himself a long litany of _oh, you just had to let your fucking tongue run unchecked just because you got a few kisses and a pat on the back_ and the like, not strictly adhering to the truth, but, as self-reproaches went, pretty good.

 

Thank god Steve hadn't followed him. Tony couldn't deal with him and his pity. He practically ran into the ballroom, zeroed in on Rhodey and Carol and streaked through the few couples that still braved the dance floor – dancing in the face of the night's ending, in the face of the cleaning personnel that was already navigating the margins of the room.

 

Tony registered the impatience on Rhodey's face as he waited for the U. S. secretary of education (what was she doing here?) to stop talking Carol's ear off. Rhodey was palpably, uncharacteristically restless, to the point that he was tapping his foot (to the point that he didn't notice Tony at once, Tony thought).

 

"Hey, flower mine," Tony said.

 

Rhodey twisted his mouth wryly, finally taking notice of him. "Can you believe this?" he said, with a vague wave towards the conversation. "I can't land two minutes alone with my girlfriend the whole night. It's either someone wants to talk to her or someone wants to ask me for directions."

 

"You do look very approachable," Tony said as Rhodey scowled sourly. "It must be the amicable smile. What do you want to talk to her about anyway? Don't you talk like a million times a day, even when you manage to go your separate ways for a couple of hours. Can't it wait till you get home?" Tony knew he was talking two hundred miles per hour. He felt himself speed up. He felt everything about him slow down. It was ridiculous, really, but he could do nothing about it.

 

Rhodey glanced at his watch. "Well, the _date_ matters," he said, and Tony glanced over, and it was almost midnight. How was that possible? How long did he stay with Steve?

 

And then Rhodey seemed to wake up. He took in Tony's appearance. Frowned. "Are you okay, Tones? What happened to you?"

 

Tony blinked. Sighed. Decided that, if he was ever going to tell the truth about this night, he could do it now, with Rhodey, or not at all. "I... just told Steve I loved him, pretty much." He thought this over for a moment. "Yep. I'm probably very much not okay."

 

Rhodey's eyes seemed to have wondered off, back to Carol. He made a visible effort to re-focus, but evidently missed the point completely. "Good for you," he told Tony with an encouraging nod.

 

Tony bristled. "What the fuck do you _mean_ , good for me?"

 

Rhodey frowned for a moment. "Well, at least you got it in the open, finally?"

 

Which... He had a point, in a way. Got it in the open, yeah. Like pulling your heart out of your chest, and putting it on scales, and finding out it didn't measure up. It wasn't enough, _you_ weren't enough. If he could find a tiny black hole to crawl into right now, Tony would. Just stop feeling things.

 

Rhodey, however, seemed so weird and fidgety and uncharacteristically distracted, that Tony almost forgot his own hurt for a moment. "What's with you tonight, baby?"

 

Rhodey gave him a long look. Then he sighed. "How did you do it?"

 

"Do what _?_ "

 

"How did you tell him? Come on, Tony, it's not a difficult question _._ "

 

Not that he should be dishing out advice, but... "I pretty much just blurted it out. It blurted itself out. I don't know."

 

This wasn't like Rhodey. What did he want, details, ice-cream, sleepovers?

 

"Oh, god," Rhodey whispered. "To hell with everything." And: "Okay." And then he turned around and shouted: "Carol!" far louder than the distance really warranted.

 

"Just a sec, sweetie," Carol said, giving him a regretful look. She looked bored out of her mind.

 

" _Carol!_ ", Rhodey repeated, not louder, but with more emphasis. A few heads turned, including the very reproachful look from the secretary of education. But Carol – Carol turned, ignoring her, ignoring everyone else. "Carol," Rhodey repeated, and then, very fast and quite loudly: " _Carolwillyoumarryme?_ "

 

" _What?_ " Tony said.

 

" _What?_ " Carol said. And then: " _Yes_. Yes I _will._ " And Tony was pretty sure she muttered something like _thank fuck_ to herself.

 

And than it was all "Carol, are you sure?" and "Yes," and "Carol, are you _really_ sure?" and "Yes, Jim, I'm really, _really_ sure," and "I have a ring, too," and "Yes, I know, I found it in the drawer when I was looking for condoms," and then Tony kind of stopped listening.

 

He stopped listening because there was Steve, standing like a boulder near the exit, like a warning sign, like a beacon. The waves of leaving guests were washing against him and around him, but he just stood there, unseeing. And Tony didn't look directly at him, he couldn't, he couldn't, because all he wanted was to be there with him, and also to shake him and yell, "Why the hell couldn't you have just loved me?". That would go awesomely, yep. And in the end Steve looked so lonely that Tony almost went and talked to him, about nothing at all, just babbling to drown out the sadness. But he steeled his heart and looked away and hugged Rhodey and hugged Carol and laughed and joked as loud as he could.

 

" _Tony!_ " It was Steve's voice, echoing weirdly through the much emptier ballroom. Suddenly, the hall itself seemed huge and horrifying, with all the gold leaf and the expanse of floor between him and Steve, and the cleaning personnel now reproachfully drifting towards the center. In the background, a ballad was playing from the speakers.

 

He turned to look at Steve, who was striding toward him, looking strangely resolute and a little bit like he was going to fall apart on the spot.

 

" _Tony, will you dance with me?!"_ he yelled over half the ballroom.

 

That was that, pretty much.

 

And then, seconds later, his body was pressed against Steve's, gently rocking to the tact of a sweet, folky tune Tony thought he recognized from somewhere, but couldn't rightly put a name to. Everything felt unreal. He could feel a part of him drift away and, instead of having that overtired impression of looking at himself from the outside, his consciousness focused on the lyrics for a moment.

_So you can keep me_  
Inside the pocket  
Of your ripped jeans  
Holdin' me closer  
'Till our eyes meet

 

Their faces were pressed tightly together. Tony was too tired to disbelieve, to wonder. All he was aware of was Steve's warm breath against his temple, the solidness of Steve's big hands on his waist. "Tony...", Steve whispered. Their feet were barely moving. The time should have slowed down around them in this moment that was almost mystical: a moment when everything seemed to fall together, come together. Steve didn't even need to say anything. His presence was enough. Tony pulled his head back for a moment, focused on Steve's blue gaze, and it was almost there, in the air, nearly uttered.  

 

"Yeah," Tony whispered back and leaned his cheek against Steve's shoulder.

 

But no, the time didn't slow down. Some of the last guests lingered to watch – the two of them, always a spectacle, whether they were fighting or making up. Still, the people had mostly left, and now it was only their closest friends and teammates, waiting for them. There were cries of "Now, really? As if they didn't have the whole evening," and "Hush, Barnes," and "No, seriously, I can never figure out if they like or dislike each other," and "Let me quote facebook for you, Scott: It's complicated," and "They love each other, really," and "I'm telling you, it's Kyrumption!".

 

The mop-wielding, broom-brandishing men and women were invading the space around them now. Tony promised himself to send a dozen cleaning bots to the chief of palace staff, as a thank-you-sorry-amalgam.

 

And he lingered in Steve's arms, barely moving, as the high-pitched voice crooned from the speakers. "Tony," Steve tried again, but still no words were coming, and Tony was almost overwhelmed with a wish to kiss him softly, to tell him that sometimes speaking did hurt, and Steve didn't have to do it. But valiantly, Steve pressed on: "Tony, what you said... The last thing you... kind of said?"

 

"Yeah," Tony whispered.

 

Steve swallowed audibly. "Well, I... _me too_ ," he said, his words a soft caress of warm air against Tony's ear. Tony wanted to tell him _I know_ , because now, all of a sudden he did, it all made sense, it had all become so clear, here in Steve's arms: how much of idiots they'd both been, how blind...

 

But what he said instead was: "Fuck yeah."

 

A beat. "I'm sorry about earlier, I was being a jerk,“ Steve went on.

 

Tony let his hand wonder up Steve's back. It felt wonderful and the experience was spoiled only by the invasive presence of fabric. "I was _more_ of a jerk.“ Because it was true, and he could outjerk Steve any day, he could outjerk him ten to one.

 

"Well, maybe," Steve replied. Tony's eyebrow shot up in amusement, but it was a wasted effort, since his cheek still rested against Steve's shoulder. (The good, hard, warm shoulder; he'd happily rest his head there for all eternity.) "But it doesn't mean I wasn't a jerk too. One doesn't cancel the other," Steve concluded.

 

Tony hesitated. "You were being jealous, weren't you?"

 

"Sorry."

 

No, no, Tony thought, we need to move past apologizing, or else we could drown each other in apologies. "It was kind of cute."

 

"Tony, you practically bit my head off."

 

It was like a dam had disappeared and Tony's words could flow freely again. "Okay, so maybe I didn't think it was cute back then, but now, in retrospect..." He snorted. "Nah, still not cute. Listen, though, I'm always jealous, I understand jealousy. I'm probably the triple world champion. But Steve?"

 

"Hm?"

 

"You've no reason to be."

 

"I..." Steve sighed. "I know that." _Now_ , he didn't say, but Tony heard it. "I don't really like myself when I'm like that. And it's got nothing to do with reason, really."

 

Tony knew that too. He kept silent and held Steve closer. He understood.

 

"I have a mission tomorrow morning," Steve said. The song was drawing to the end, too quickly. "I have to..."

 

"You... be safe," Tony replied lamely as he pulled away a bit. He wasn't disappointed – or he shouldn't be, he thought – everything was great, everything was better than he could have ever hoped, and he'll _see_ Steve, as soon as humanly possible. He also had a jet waiting to take him and Pepper to Beijing for a business meeting; his schedule was more packed than ever these days. As per usual, the world wouldn't leave them be even for a moment.

 

Steve pulled him back in for a second, and Tony let him. Just as the song was ending, Steve whispered: "Wait for me to come home."

 

***

 

Tony did. He waited for Steve in his office in the Compound – which was actually Steve's old office, from back when Tony imagined it was possible to retire from the work that made him feel alive. Maybe, just maybe, they could share the office space now. It would be kind of romantic. They would probably drive each other crazy and argue all the time, which was also, Tony considered, romantic, in a weird way.

 

He'd considered going down to meet Steve – to be completely honest, he'd considered standing by the main gate of the Compound since 5 in the morning. That would be the time he'd woken up, had he actually slept; he suspected that the short, tossy, turny experience should probably be called something else and not sleep. Besides, eagerness was one thing. Doing a Pluto the Dog impersonation by the gate was quite another.

 

"The temptation is real," he'd told his reflection in the mirror as he watched it shave a few stray hairs from his left cheek. Then he proceeded to try and pick a T-shirt to wear, which helped him kill 45 minutes. It was a black one. Really, he could say nothing else about it.

 

And then Steve arrived, and Tony didn't watch him on the security cams, honest word, maybe just a glance or two. He was standing at the door to Tony's office now; Tony was feigning like he was putting aside some documents he'd been pretend-working on. He didn't exactly trust himself to speak. He thought, however, he could probably handle getting up and going to meet Steve halfway, which, nope, also wasn't such a good idea, considering how shaky his legs were.

 

"Hey," Steve said. His voice sounded a bit watery. Tony nodded to him, because voice was just a distant possibility at that point, and in some part of his brain that wasn't completely clouded over he figured he wouldn't want to sound all high-pitched, would he now. That would be totally humiliating.

 

He realized he had stopped about halfway across the room; Steve was still standing at the door. His eyes looked very big and his Adam's apple was bobbing up and down. The gala seemed in the distant past. This was a first time again, a first meeting, with all the gut-clenching nervousness it entailed. And why was it always like this with the two of them, Tony wondered as he considered whether his wobbly legs could handle another step forward. He was staring at Steve. He couldn't _not_ stare. The warmth was spreading through his chest, so intense it made him shiver, which made absolutely no sense, he figured; if it was warm, you shouldn't shiver like this. At the same time, it felt like a hug. Just from _looking_ , he thought. This is crazy. Why am I doing this crazy thing. Why didn't I do it earlier? Why...

 

His thoughts seemed more and more disjointed. He had to say something. You should say something in situations like this one. Steve's presence made his river of words dry out. Even his usual babbling would have been better than falling into these silences again, fumbling for something to say to each other, oh please, not _again._

 

"Steve," he managed, and it was the only thing he could think of, since 'hey' was already used up. It seemed enough. Steve's face broke into a smile that could light up worlds, as if Tony had said something both clever and funny and tender. Tony suddenly realized something: it doesn't matter, it isn't really important what we say; with the two of us, it's either perfect understanding or total misunderstanding.

 

He was all the way across the room, then; he didn't even know how that happened. They weren't touching, not yet, but they were standing solidly in each other's personal space, and the not-touching thing was more like having your favorite ice cream right in front of you. You could dig in right now, but you want to savor it for a moment longer, to finally taste the longing, because earlier it was too painful and you kept it at bay, but now that you're just seconds away from fulfillment, you can allow yourself to experience your feelings to the fullest.

 

As Tony always knew they would be, the emotions were too much and he could barely handle them.

 

He and Steve stared into each other's eyes. It was perfect, in a painful, chest-exploding way.

 

"You kept them," Steve managed, tearing his gaze away from Tony and looking around the office, at the drawings that still lined the walls.

 

Tony knew instantly what he was talking about. "I wasn't going to throw your art away, was I?" he said, trying for dryness and failing spectacularly. Yep. There was the high-pitch. The high-pitch seemed inevitable. The sooner he got it out of the way, the better.

 

He moved marginally closer to Steve. He imagined he could feel the warmth oozing off the man in waves, but, Tony rationalized, it must be himself, his heart pumping frantically, so loud Steve was probably able to hear it.

 

Steve didn't move away. He stood there like a rock. He must have his own gravity, Tony figured, if he's affecting me like this. But Steve's hand rose, stayed motionless mid-air for a second, then, moved forward jerkily. His knuckles brushed against Tony's chest for a merest instant. Right where the arc reactor used to be. It was the weirdest of caresses and it made Tony's heart jump painfully, wanting more, _more._ Steve let his hand fall.

 

"You've changed the common area, though," Steve commented, trying for off-handedness and failing so spectacularly Tony wanted to record it and have it as his ringtone.

 

There was an itch of wanting in his palm, and if he didn't touch Steve he would go crazy. What was it with touching his chest and retracting, anyway? What was that about? He reached out and, never looking down, pretending nothing was happening, took a hold of Steve's hand. Steve sucked in half a breath, but still just stood there, motionless.

 

As if none of this was taking place, Tony shrugged. "Well, Wanda redecorated back in 2k16. I never liked what she did with the place." Nope, if this was a competition at failing at pretend-casualness, he would be a definite winner. See, he could always outdo Steve when it came to shitty competitions.

 

Steve squeezed his hand. He _squeezed his hand_ and Tony thought his knees would just give way there and then. Was buckling of knees audible? Steve could probably hear that too.

 

Then there was Steve's other hand. Tony would have sworn he could sense it approaching his body. He wouldn't look down, not for a million dollars, not now. It was all a part of the game. His breath froze in his chest in anticipation of where it would go.

 

"It's still home," Steve said simply and Tony's chest constricted so painfully his breath hitched.

 

Steve's hand brushed against Tony's waist, then – Tony swallowed hard – and the thumb sneaked its way under his tee. It stroked the skin of his midriff, ever so slowly.

 

"Wow, cheeky," Tony commented, his voice a hoarse and dry whisper, barely audible. He could do nothing about it, yay, new levels of humiliation there.

 

"Problem?" Steve squeaked, cleared his throat, then raised his eyebrow in an attempt to salvage the effect. (It didn't work, though, a squeak was still a squeak.) His hand resting on Tony's hip, Steve's thumb was rubbing searing heat into Tony's flesh. It was at the same time gentle, barely a brush of skin against skin, and impertinent, almost proprietorial.

 

With his free hand Tony reached down. He ran his fingertips over the back of Steve's hand, then up, raising his own T-shirt even higher. "Not really a problem, I don't think," he managed as Steve slipped his whole palm under, ran it up Tony's ribcage.

 

Steve was breathing unevenly now. Tony ran his fingertips up Steve's arm, to his shoulder, snagging them for a second in the hem of Steve's short sleeve. Then continued upwards, to graze the skin of his neck with his short clipped nails, and higher still. He touched his fingertip to the corner of Steve's mouth and run it lightly along his lower lip. Steve shivered.

 

Tony said: "So, how was the flight?"

 

An unexpected snort of laughter escaped Steve, and it seemed to break the spell, Steve grabbed him by the waist, pulled him closer, his palm now a solid presence at the small of Tony's back. Their chests were touching, and the stomachs and groins were burning against each other. His thoughts fled for a time, as he turned his face up to capture Steve's lips. The kiss was white hot and solid and so full of heart Tony thought he would cry. If he wasn't in Steve's arms he might have slumped to the floor, which, on second thought, wouldn't have been so bad either.

 

He didn't even know how it all happened exactly. One moment they were kissing, bodies pressed together, hands under T-shirts. Practically the next moment Steve was holding both their cocks in his hand, and rubbing, stroking. It was hot and rushed, and it was way too dry. Thoughts, fleeting: Shit, why did I leave the lube in the bedroom? How naive of me. _Again._ All Tony could do was lean his forehead against Steve's shoulder and concentrate on the feeling of Steve against him and try to stay on his feet as the scorching tide rose ever-higher. Tony came first, but Steve was finished in the next few seconds. Altogether it took less than eight minutes, and then they were holding each other and panting and pretending their clothes wasn't all sperm-sprinkled.

 

"The flight," Steve breathed, "was just fine." And then: "How come I never know what to say to you?"

 

Tony considered saying _because too much happened, because we didn't know where we stood for too long, because we're both emotionally constipated idiots._ But that seemed like a discussion for later, when he had his breath back. Instead he gave him half a smile and shrugged. "Want a beer? It's cold."

 

Steve nodded gratefully as he tucked himself in, and Tony proceeded to drag him towards the kitchen and the fridge. Tony had also had an ice-bucket with champagne ready, back in his bedroom, but the sparkly, and lounging around in silk sheets, and slow languid fucking he had had in mind will apparently have to wait. Well, it's not as if either of them was going anywhere for the time being, so it was just as well. Now that they both knew they wanted this, they had all the time in the world.

 

The silence turned companionable as they walked hand in hand, down the familiar corridors. _How come I never know what to say to you?_ "Do I make you nervous?" Tony asked, half jokingly, but not. And making Captain America nervous might have seemed like a ridiculous concept, but this was his Steve, who could cry if he was sorry, who got overwhelmed in crowds, who had as much of a public face as Tony did.

 

"Do you...? Steve laughed out. "Yes. Yes, Tony, you make me nervous." A beat. "But I _like_ it."

 

Tony shot him a smiley look from a corner of his eye and said nothing for a while.

 

"I don't want to make you nervous, Steve," he said a little later, at the kitchen table. "And for the record, you also make _me_ nervous."

 

Steve shot him a grateful look. "That makes it a little better, you know" he said. "Is it supposed to?" He paused for a second, laughed softly. "I kind of thought you just didn't want to talk to me." He took a sip of his beer. "Is that why you kept sending me all those videos and things all year?"

 

" _So_ shrewd," Tony commented.

 

"Well, is it?"

 

"Because I was too much of a chicken to strike up a normal conversation in fear you didn't actually want it? So I kept it at a high level of deniability? Well, what do you _think_?"

 

Steve smiled at him. "Sam _did_ say something like that, you know."

 

"You asked _Sam_?"

 

"Some time ago, yeah."

 

Tony considered. "What'd he say?"

 

"I asked obliquely, you know." Yeah, I bet, Tony thought. Steve Rogers, the epitome of subtlety. He bit his tongue and contained his smile, and Steve went on: "Sam said someone had a crush on me, a bad one, and that that person was also obviously thirteen."

 

Tony laughed out. "So, he guessed it was me, then."

 

"Probably."

 

Tony took a long drink and shot Steve a curious look. "What did the others say? To all this?"

 

"Well..." Steve hesitated.

 

"Aw, come on, I can take it."

 

"No, it's not that. Actually..." He smiled to himself. "Bucky said if this thing helped make me less crazy, then thank fuck. Natasha told him not to be crude, and then _she_ said thank fuck. Thor showed at my door up yesterday and wouldn't shut up about something called Kyrumption. Apparently that's..."

 

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

 

"Is that an Asgardian thing? I thought it was an Asgardian thing."

 

Tony regarded him for a moment, started to say something, then changed his mind. _Look at us, chatting away_ , he thought. _Maybe we can have this back too, after all._ "Probably." He twisted his mouth. Steve leaned over to kiss him and Tony couldn't contain a smile any longer, no matter how hard he tried. "You know," he said, "right now, 'heroes coming together' gets a whole new meaning. Do we tell him that, do you think?"

 

Steve blushed a little, just a rosy tint to his cheeks, but he grinned insolently. "If it would embarrass him, then yeah, I'd say go for it. But I think he would just smile and nod happily, so that kind of spoils the fun."

 

"You have untapped, devious depths, Rogers," Tony commented.

 

"I missed Thor," Steve said, and Tony noticed his eyes had gone serious. "I miss..." He trailed off.

 

He didn't need to say it, though. Tony knew. He'd seen Steve come through the gate, with a stupid duffel bag slung over his shoulder, saw the way Steve looked around the Compound grounds with naked longing on his face. Heard it in his voice too, when Steve saw his old office, exactly the same as the day he left, the artwork and everything. At first, keeping it the way it had been was Tony's way of torturing himself, and then it was a conscious decision to preserve memories. And now, seeing the longing in Steve's eyes, he was glad he did, and decided he was going to fix everything again, make everything work or he'd be damned. Steve would have everything he loved back.

 

The words almost gushed out of his mouth, but he checked the flow for a moment, tampered it down. _Don't rush it._ "Maybe we could have all that again," he said gently. "All the Avengers, back together. I mean, who knows, now. We could try."

 

Steve looked up sharply. "You'd want that?"

 

 _For you_ , Tony thought. Everything. Even Barnes. He could learn to tolerate even the Bucky fucking Barnes. "Why the hell not?" He looked at Steve appreciatively. "I bagged the key player, after all. Everything else is less important." And then, as if there was any doubt left: "Steve, I love you."

 

"I love you too, Tony. And I'm... I'm so happy to be here with you. And I _missed_ you. It's... it's been too long. "

 

All the legalities of having Steve back in the U. S. have, when prodded and string-pulled into submission, taken shorter than anyone would have thought, but it still seemed long.

 

"It's only been two days since the gala, you sap," he said, flippantly, unconvincingly. Mellowed it down with a long, soft look. He knew it was not what Steve meant.

 

"Well," Steve shrugged. "Felt like longer."

 

It was Tony's turn to lean over and pull Steve into a slow kiss. "Yeah," he admitted. "It did feel like longer, didn't it?"

 

Beer was good, because you could sit at the kitchen table and hold hands and have something to do with your other hand too. Tony's heart was still loud in his ears. It had become a background beat, like a thud of the basses from afar, and, Tony thought, if it stopped now, it would feel weird without it. The burning excitement was clouding his thoughts as they toasted. "To new beginnings," he said, because that was what was in his thoughts right now. But: "To coming home," Steve replied as he clicked his bottle against Tony's, and Tony concurred: "To coming home, then", and that was, perhaps, more fitting.

 

 THE END

**Author's Note:**

> From _Angel_ :
> 
> Fred: “Kyrumption. It’s the one nice word I remember from the Pylean hell dimension.”  
> Angel: “What’s it mean?”  
> Fred: “It’s when two great heroes meet on the field of battle and recognize their mutual fate. It’s also a kind of grog made out of the ox dung but that’s archaic.”
> 
> And:
> 
> Lorne: “Sorry, strudel. It’s not just when you’re singing. We got a little term back in Pylea. Kyrumption?”  
> Angel: “I know it.”  
> Lorne: “Okay. When two great heroes come together…”  
> Angel: “There will be no coming together, okay? Everything we’ve been through together and all anybody wants to talk about is…”  
> Lorne: “Can’t fight Kyrumption, cinnamon buns. It’s fate. It’s the stars. ”
> 
> (This is where the title is from, too.)
> 
> The line 'they love each other, really' is from the comics.
> 
> I tried with the outfits, but as far as I'm concerned, in general, all the people could wear nothing but grainsacks and I'd never notice, so I'm probably not your best outfit writer.
> 
> If you liked the fic, please tell me so <3 I also have [tumblr](https://the-vorkosigan.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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